Pavement and Doorways

Fringe Junkie

Lookout Mountain A gypsy westren

Cherokee women.

This is my great grandmother. She fell in love with a Cherokee Indian, my great grandfather. She lived in the wild west.

Hitting the Ground

Hitting the ground

Sleepwalking is seeing with mouth shut

eyes closed, forward listening to reflected sound. 

Sleepwalking through mine felids

dead ends

long tunnels, the memories of childhood dreams.

Falling off that wall in our backyard,

I always hit the ground.

Before I woke up and saw her sitting at the end of my bed, blank faced.

Watching as I fight the attackers of my dreams.

Eyes that promise suffering like stars promise night

they are metal, human, animal or the unknown beings of political darkness.

Chasing me, Im hiding behind curtains, under numb limbs. 

Grinding teeth into powder. 

Adding it to my bag full of hands. 

A fist of leaves and stones. 

Hanging like the dank smell of midnight from my neck.

Dreams teach the body how to react, plasticity creates neural visions.

Hands blurred in lucid time deception. 

Words blurred and scrolled across palms

My body is always stiff when I wake up. 

Smelling the pheromones of the sun as I feel it's symmetry.

Pushing past my eyes to cortical solar systems. 

Hues of blues and greens

reds turning night into pink skies, 

orange clouds with the smell of sea foam 

washing the bodies of large mammals to the shore. 

I swallow sand and purple flowers, 

rolling off cliffs of maddening head lights 

beating into the static frenzy of city youth 

radio castings the story of fear, revolt, submission 

in the back of that green pick up truck 

I felt the cold hand reaching through the small window

Warm fingers interlacing cold 

Shedding unwanted love like tangled hair 

                                                                                   Chana Reynolds