A book of moving pictures

I had a dream that was airbrushed in colorful lapses of logic that coexisted with the feeling that I could be anything. No, I was anything. I was a sailboat penciled from lined paper, cruising the shallow lined paper waves on a sunny lined paper day. A tricycle swimming backwards up the Statue of Liberty. I woke with morning amnesia, collecting the widowed shards of a story on how these blankets gave birth to me. Beneath a patchwork of stars and refracted light I feel most incarnate, like a morning still dark I was destined for brevity.

To the woman’s voice through the barrage of door locks and state lines, wishing I was back in her kitchen laced with her love. I’m not sure if I’m getting close or I just finally started listening. The other week I waltzed with a stranger and stage dove for the first time into a throng of the funnest people in the island. When they were wild and loud, I looked lost and sedated, but I knew I was having the same amount of fun. The secret was in the shoes I wore. They treated the floor like black piano keys.