Last Night

Last night I dreamt a howling windy painful poem
And when I awoke I could not remember it
Except to say it had
Carl Solomon and Jacob Oliviera and Nelson Algrien
And was about
Painful screaming poets burning up with life
Lions in a cage of passion
And talent
And lovelorn love
Love
Love
And now I'm writing it's shadow
Here
Here
Three cheers for a morose ghost
Of a Poem
I'm writing it here
Without benefit of format or
Formal formations of
Words
No format
Reformat
Reformat my mind so I can start anew
Brand New mind
Brand New
Brand New
Brand Nubians and Public Enemies
And yes I remember the music of the city
The streets
The crowded bustling urbanities
Just as I remember the soul of the mountains
Folk music, flutes, guitars, warmth of life
Not electricty
I remember loud rebellious screaming fire punks
And soft autumn warmths of singer-songwriters
And I remember that music is a kind of poetry, too

So I guess even if I don't remember
The Dream
The Poem
Of passion and fire burning us up
A lesson
A lesson
A lesson
Thrice learned is that
Music is a kind of poetry, too