Lexicon by Jerry Garcia

         My dream of words

At war in the cerebral forest
idioms explode into shrapnel,
words clash with branches,
small-legged animals dodge punctuation
and break ranks as the ground opens 

to swallow the ashes of my wounded rhyme.
I stand naked at the window,
watch letters build 
into well-dressed phrases 
and attack like arrows.
I have not the muscle 
to counter this assault.

I am becoming an old man 
who curls over rough hewn tables, 
scratches rambling nonsense onto yellow tablets,
each stroke chafing wits
like abrasions in my mind.

In the cold, my speech freezes,
my blue winter skin jackets the forest trees,
I wrinkle and harden with the bark.

Jerry Garcia © 2011


Whitman Digital Collage by Kenneth Rougeau