Perhaps I’m stuck behind the window of this car,
turning the wheel to mountains and bars,
feeling the echo of the emotions tomorrow.
Drive on, drive on, drive on.
Perhaps I’m stuck behind the window of my eyes,
sightseeing for shits and wine,
listening to the music of gunshots tonight.
Salinas grime. Stay inside, stay inside.
Staring out the window of my motel room, it’s fine.
Television is on, few channels to watch.
At least to dampen the hate first world brings.
At least to imagine the smog to clear to see the stars.
Imagine on, imagine on, imagine on.
On the highway now for hours, even days, weeks, months, years, depending on how you see time. The clock says this, my heart says that. We’re holding hands on your lap. Having to pee, but 40 miles ’til the next exit. Almost out of gas, but we’re both down to push, get these wheels a ‘rolling. Bob Dylan and Cohen, easy listening. Stone Temple Pilots, the vibe, oh yes. A Tribe Called Quest, that’s right. Uphill, downhill, steady, even roads, cloudy, sunny, windy, still out here, still in here, still in and out and in. Staring at you, staring at…
Squeeze the lemon in my eye as you speak to me about a future, about my next tier in the doubt of sunrays. Bathe in the juice to purify a dream, and cast away the calendar to resort to more fruitful days. Release my sight.
“So, what we are here today to do is dissect your brain and figure out why you can’t seem to get along,” the doctor says after he puts the lemon into his glass of water and takes a sip. …
Dance In The Glass House Dreaming
Driven By Sound
All Dreams Are Cast
Into Space, Time,
All That May Might.
My Time Is Away, Moving
Into A Race
Is Such A Great Thing
Great Thing. Thing. A.
The Glass House Cries Defiantly
Through Night’s Understanding
Of These Tears
Oh. Yes. These Rights.
Oh, Glass House,
Come Find Me,
Wherever I am,
And Even Though I Am Inside You.
Come Find Me,
Where You Are,
Outside Of ME.
Jesse M. Gonzalez 2021
There are books sprawled all over the floor, some on the shelf, some on the desk, and one on the bed. Whiskey on the shelf. I’m in my head, looking around, at some aspect of myself and of my head. What do I do? I think I need to clean, but the floor is now swirling, my feet are beginning to turn within angles and my clothes are all sinking.
A shadow stands by the door and it shuts it closed and I’m here all alone, new fancy pens, and prehistoric friends from the other side. …
I’m in a room, not mine, TV is on —
12 channels, nothing good.
4 of news, 3 of sports, 2 of ads, 1 of porn, 1 of reality.
And I’m tied to this bed, mind is fried
from what I’ve been fed,
and the noise in perpetual
and the machinery is interminable,
and I’m not laughing,
I’m not crying,
maybe sighing as I turn blue,
as I turn green again.
A lady comes every now and then, gives me cahoots and carrots and pudding for my suffering for my effortless stagnation, of dwelling in the whirlpools of…
I played jazz at midnight
and fell asleep with the hum of your voice,
crackling on the phone amongst the scratching
of the record’s revolutions.
My dreams were a series
of episodes of your sorrow.
Now I’ve heard it all, every horoscope,
right or wrong — you were making choices all along.
The night had played tricks on us and still
the moon did funny things to you and I,
and now I no longer think you’re insane —
just a little grey.
Oh, Ameria, all I had wanted was for you to send a kiss to me from a…