Photo © Alice Espinosa-Cincotta
If I Didn’t Dream It
I stopped remembering my dreams.
They seem to have gone the way of live music,
performing, drinking at the bar, hugging friends.
Sex and conversation, laughing in the street;
Did any part of my life really happen?
Or have I always sat at this desk,
hidden away from people
like a rock and roll Emily Dickinson,
imagining dancing in front of the band,
music so loud it took half my hearing
and, in that moment not thinking,
not caring about consequences
or tomorrow or even much of yesterday?
Was it all a dream?
Did I sit, surrounded
by not quite white walls
and rows of books,
as I created the life I thought about,
the one I always wanted,
a tough broad with a soft spot
that only a few ever touched,
keeping those few forever?
If it was real, wouldn’t I dream it?
Sometimes I wake in the morning,
sepia images of casual acquaintances
floating towards the ceiling,
unclear why they’re the ones
who visit, never anybody
with a hint or mystery
or a scent of the forbidden,
just some legs and heads,
riding the same bus
or standing in the elevator.
Another morning comes,
another coffee in the same
black cup, MOMA, 2000;
Does it mean I was there,
at a museum retrospective
wandering among Picassos,
red and blue periods,
Van Gogh’s Starry Night,
Modigliani’s long necked women?
Or did I sit in my chair
in front of the oak roll top desk,
far away from art and air and breath?
What if everything is a dream
and my sleeping hours are empty
of thought and image?
What if nothing in my life ever happened?
© 2021 Puma Perl
Just Another Day
(in memory of Savage)
In midafternoon
on New Year’s Eve Day
he cancelled the plans
that he had initiated
I was not surprised,
just annoyed because now
I’d have to buy my own food
My heart remained dark
and unmoved
Connections are meaningless
if our souls are all the same
once you peel away egos
and black leather jackets
Without bodies
there’s nothing left
to exchange
but the air we breathe,
the sky we see,
the swords we bury
so deep below the surface
they’ll never be found
On New Year’s Eve Day
it was not his cancellation
that crushed my heart
despite my clumsy efforts
to piece the puzzles
back together
Once said, words
will never be unsaid
We writers are blessed
with memory
and cursed
with perfect recall
It’s hard to admit,
but my dark heart
sometimes shatters
just like his recollections
It’s easy to lose hours
like leopard gloves
and broken umbrellas
Just another night
Backup plans trashed
Chinese food on the way
Everybody lying low.
© 2021 Puma Perl
Puma Perl is a poet, writer, performer, and producer. She’s the author of two chapbooks, Ruby True and Belinda and Her Friends, and three full-length poetry collections, knuckle tattoos, Retrograde (great weather for MEDIA), and Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque Books.) She was the creator, curator, and host of Puma’s Pandemonium, which brings spoken word together with rock and roll. As Puma Perl and Friends, she’s performed regularly with a group of excellent musicians. She’s received three awards from the New York Press Association in recognition of her journalism and was the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing.
