Stephen Morse		"Dream Horse"                          after Neruda Unnecessarily, I look at myself in the mirror with my love of words, stories, movies, yanking from my heart, the captain of hell, I make infinitely sad sentences. I drift from one point to another, absorbing illusions talking with the seamsters in their nests: then, for a moment, with frigid and fatal voices they sing and cast evil spells. There's a large place in the sky with magic carpets of rainbows and holy plants: I drag my self forward, not without a certain fatigue stumbling on the earth taken from the graves of large paintings I dream in the middle of these confused vegetables. I pass between fruitless documents, between beginnings, dressed like originality and choppiness: I love the honeyed taste of respect, the sweet prayers under the leaves of drowsing violets grown old and their accomplices seeping: Looking, without doubt, serious and certain. I destroy the rose that whistles and the hawking anxiety: I romp in the extremes of wishes, and worst of all I undo the normal beat, without any measure the taste that I have in my heart depresses me. What a day this is that has arrived---the milky light in the air compact, in pieces, favoring me. I hear its red horses whinny naked without their bridles or bits. Mounting, I ride over churches gallop the empty barracks of war pursued by an erumpent regiment whose galloping bell body swallows me. I need the rekindling of that persistent spark--- the festival of the dead---to regain what was mine at birth		"stone love" there have been no accidents by me on her.  the hot fluid i spilled in her crotch nor the joint that singed her lips one evening of a stone. she was the first there were no others i knew what i was doing the love i wanted that i knew i was giving because i had to. we loved easy and vanity turned to brightness work turned to warmth and between hate and death there were no questions we could not answer with the smooth stones of a kiss.