This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 423,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

I Dream Too Much

I dream too much
hold slumber too late into the day
imagine too sincerely
that my dayvisions and night dreams
are more real than the tactile touch of skin on surface
in them, she moves with purpose
presses lips to soul
and swallows me in language
dreams, then, have meaning
and, I eagerly swallow them all

I find reason on weekdays
to labor to exhaustion
sleep as an infantryman in a foxhole
beneath the bombardment of career
so that when weekends bring their liberations
I can’t bear to rise until day is half done
on those days I can rewake and renap a dozen times
revisit her in new theatres
prior to the weight of the sunlight
pulling me from her, heavy in the gravity

before the last rise
when wherewithal is still foreign to my consciousness
I speak to her all the things I wish to say
if she were here
she hushes my lips with fingertips
strips off our clothes
and presses skin to skin to hold me
until we both open
two halves of a wound healing together

we breathe twice as deep
and hearts find each other
cleave arteries and veins into freshly spun spaghetti
and become Siamese twins of beating muscle
born from different mothers

I would hold there for days
if breezes and the spinning world
wouldn’t earthquake away

if catastrophe evicts me from flesh too soon
may some tornado lift me in Oz-brand ferocity
back to her open arms
and octopus rib cage,
pull me in close
bite spleen into lemon spleen
liver into apricot liver
pull hearts through aortas like handkerchief magic tricks
and swirl us into one shade of Play-doh
pliable for the ethereal children
who will next shape our formlessness

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