A Dream about Laurence Goldstein

i awoke aching to remember that poem
that you boomed throughout my slumber:

those distinguished gray snarls on your head
stood still as your fist came pounding
upon a podium of pine - thundering
with your stomping spondees (dripping with
little "uh"s here and there) - your breath
drawing in deeply, commanding the air
to aid your lungs in their projection
of your stampede of photographs in your words

your eyes gazed up into the florescent lights
that illuminated your crinkled forehead and left
a deathly glare within your thick bent glasses;
your teeth showed vigor as your lips gaped to free
each piercing noise from your muddled tongue

there was a slow-motion depth prickling my ears
with deafening claps of mono-syllabic pride,
a cacophony that made the throats of those around you
bleed from their nail-like echoes; you are a hammer
with your SoCal pretension (not at all a bad thing)

as my chest thumped with each of your words
i listened with my ribs rather than my ears -
so (i'm sorry but) i can't remember your poem;

only the beauty of power that we have discussed

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