Ink and Feels

“Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges

I’ve stolen dreamed words
out of Borges’ mouth
and written us on my skin.

In the book of us,
your words are drummed to song
I dance into ink and feels;

there (in the wicked wild)
I am verse with you,
there (in flawless chaos) I
become your curiosity,
there (words are always
made of you and me)
quieted only by kisses.

Remember that kiss,
the one that lasted until you knew
the flavor of my mouth by heart?
I felt it, during a dance
of flesh and soul,
while my eyes sipped a mountain
of snow and summer and you.

I’ve stolen words
out of a book of peace and hope,
and popped them into my mouth

while the world watched
and smiled
happily, seeing me

being me… with you.

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.
some of the poetic images… that birthed the poem



“The man lectured his pupils on anatomy, cosmography, and magic: the faces listened anxiously and tried to answer understandingly, as if they guessed the importance of that examination which would redeem one of them from his condition of empty illusion and interpolate him into the real world.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges

I woke up dream-drunk,
darling, with the taste of mud
in my mouth…

a giggle,

or, was that a cackle,
fighting for the gift of being
real, after the awakening? Not just
a memory of pine
-apple chunks and wild swallows,

but night shade(s) made flesh.

Darling, I’ve written you
alive, in ink and bone
and thoughts (no illusion).

the wee notes…
– Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, an extremely stunning Toad invited us “to write a new poem that begins with a line out of [our] own words.” I chose a bit from a blog post I published a few weeks back, “I Shall Dream You and Write You a World”, mostly because… well, I’m sort of in love with the phrase “I woke up dream-drunk”.
Nightshade: atropa belladonna; belladonna; deadly nightshade… is remedy and poison.

I just know that passion fruit flowers were grown out of a dream.


She dreams a song of red-booted steps dancing on stones made of ink. Flesh is exposed, (made) believed real, but never touched—can’t feel what has never been… “But I am”, says the ghost(ly) writer… his mussitation is swallowed by the dark. She looks over her shoulder, searching for a mouth, a heart, some bloody bones… wakening to nothing.

in the night,
a hint of leather
and red, lies

the wee notes…
Mussitation: silent movement of the lips in simulation of the movements made in audible speech; muttering; mumbling; murmuring.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Writing Unseen.