Thomas Piekarski

Anatomy of a Dream




   in words

acting as


                           we scheme

                                               with calculated

       turbulence                                                   initiate

                   disturbances               then

                            to compensate             create




Anatomic discharge spread

at large, everywhere to the despair

of no one, isn’t kosher but here you have it

written all over your face, moles, wrinkles, dry

lips, sunken cheeks, tooth missing, yet emboldened 

by disparity between what you see and believe, excited,

canoodling on a Riviera beach with some luridly hot chick.


                            Hand me   one dollar

                            I’ll render   it free

                            of your   mad tyranny

                            then will   gladly give  

                            that note   to one

                            who will   thereby make

                            sense of   things like

                            right left   day night

                            no matter   how weak

                            lifting him   from poverty


Don’t give me any  holier than thou  ridiculous  irreal excuse

I see through  your spurious ruses  every time with gold eyes


                                                                                     May comes

                                                                          upon the wind’s

                                                                 uproarious waves

                                                        blown helter-skelter

                                               I’ll never find shelter

                                       I convince myself

                               hanging like a kite

                        caught on a branch


Make me

whole oh

you pixie

so bright


Take me now

blue moon living

under the bed and

coursing my veins


Run rodent run

collecting suns

in an Easter basket

you’ll donate


Periwinkle sprinkled

on my breakfast cereal

you taste great

despite no sugar


Mainframe computer

don’t calculate my future

I wouldn’t want to know

when it will be that I go


                                    Whirled in the jet stream of peace

             dreaming a voluminous life away

                                    industrious only in my slumber

             I failed to collect her number

                                    so left the pub unfulfilled

             knowing I’d never partake

                                   of those luscious emerald lips

            and pearly pear-shaped hips


                                                                               Papa said

          don’t disrupt

                                                 the dead


                                      Enter Einstein, hair lightning snakes

                                      that permeate the entire globe.

                                      He wobbles inside light of a strobe,

                                      and I’m anything but entertained

                                      for I’ve had enough of dark matter

                                      obstructing my indispensable gravity.




1864: Bucket of Blood Saloon peak of the silver rush

Tennessee Jake ambled in half sloshed, allegedly shot

his woman down, frowned, then commenced to croon.


Blasted from the guts of a cosmic volcano I strode throughout


                                                                              of intuition

                                                                   this delusion  


                                                    a prison



                      the impression

             final decision  

 whether to accept

the one thousandth of one percent that nature has revealed to me.

               Man Ray seated in a Paris café, sipping a drink,

               chatting with Breton, Ernst, Duchamp, Eluard,

               plotting the course of Dada: “The intellect has

               nil to do with discovery” muses one. “Physical

               concepts are free creations of the human mind”

               says another. “The distinction between past and

               present a stubbornly persistent illusion” chimes

               the third. “Time and space are not conditions in

               which we live” offers the one with an iron face.


                       Our strategy   should be   not only   to shun empire

                but to   lay siege to it   deprive it of oxygen   shame it

        with art   with music   with literature   and yes even joy


          My goal is to live like indigenous peoples with developed

                    economies, not few, not savage, not ostracized,

                           having permanency, stewardship, faith,

                                 and no not looking for salvation:

                                       the elk in the field both

                                       friend and food, in synch

                                 with the reality of season’s change.

                           Nothing about nature ever so perplexing

                    as it is to the estranged youth of today hibernated

         in a dark room and only cell phone with which to commune.


                                  Once I’ve run plumb out of luck

the only way out is straight up.


Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including Taj Mahal Review, Poetry Quarterly, Literature Today, Poetry Salzburg, South African Literary Journal, The Frogmore Papers, and many more. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, and Mercurial World.