Kalpurush

// On poems that I write in dreams

Poems come to those who never dream It comes to me when I am asleep When I'm tired enough to write, tired enough to speak Like Coleridge dreamt of Kubla Khan in Xanadu I dream of cerulean patterns on ceramic pots And all it takes is one shattering of the pot to shatter the dream I'm in All it takes is for my mother to drop the steel plate or bowl or spoon While preparing for the day to begin She makes food for others while I make poems in my dreams She creates my living fuel whil I spend every unwaking second far far away In a reality not so real. I sleep in a crowded place, I sleep in publicity But one by on the ceramic pots break and remind me how truly invisible I am When I look at the mirror and brush my hair for the first time this week I know I'm alive When the toothpaste tastes a bit too bitter on my teeth I know I'm alive But when I go to bed each night Trying my best not to weave poems in my dreams I am anything but alive Those who are alive would never dream Those who write poems would never dream And yet, here I am A sin, a whirlpool, a curse, a penny on the sidewalk Dreaming about poems I can never write.