“Swallow the pill & I promise you’ll see.” Frank was keen
as he strapped rocket boots to his feet & flew.
I think we bought them in a Brooklyn bodega dream,
pondering over words & how a blank page is our greatest enemy.
We traded world stickers, see, about how he’s the black dream
& we’re all drops of dye in a cup of cat’s cream
that is the world. Though he’s from New Orleans, Frank
mixes the meanest cup of lean I’ve ever seen & we take it
to Coney to see the sea & those who buried dreams
by the white margins six feet deep.
We’re writers madden by fever, fingers on ink triggers
with nothing but a dream in hand & a cold Harlem nutcracker
in the other. Frank knows I’ve been here forever like I’m
tethered to this universe with a knack for pushing borders &
heating the ether. He looks beautiful against the sea & he’s
someone that I need to be: a dancer on the meter of words,
a drifter between tongue & teeth, the cleverest orator
& he’s the most enlightened speaker I’ve the pleasure to meet.
Frank says Brooklyn’s got the body of a woman, vastly
different from his Angel’s Desert. He says my sky dreams in
Pink & White creams because its daydreams are unclean,
smeared by those who just can’t seem to sleep.
He walks to the infinite seam of the beach, where the waking
& sleeping worlds meet. Smiling, Frank says, “When you get there,
do you think everything is there that you dreamed of?”