Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Under

    the warm

    trickle of soothing water,

    I stand in the old

    and ancient shower

    thinking about sleep patterns

    within the vastness of concrete

    in this downtown loft

    beneath 14 foot ceilings.

    I can easily recall

    the maddening effort of dreams,

    the same dreams I've had

    over and over,

    and

    perhaps similar dreams

    of the other artists

    who have lived here before me,

    who have also dreamt in color

    and about color

    just like me.

    .

    last night

    I dreamt about

    the color green...

    the elegant green of jade

    and

    the sparkling green of emeralds,

    the lovely

    yet filthy green of paper money,

    as well as all the greens of nature,

    trees-lawns-shrubs

    and even garden hoses.

    also

    the green mold

    found on old bread and cheese,

    and

    the green of algae

    prospering along the moist edges

    of this shower.

    .

    the

    slow-moving drain,

    stopped-up and clogged

    no doubt from the hair

    of a hundred different artists

    who dwelled in this drafty place

    over so many years,

    people

    who found both love and hatred,

    people very much like me I suppose

    who've gone the distance

    twice over

    only to find doubt with both.

    .

    yet

    like me,

    rising with great hope

    each and every day

    much like cold dust

    blasted by an anxious breath,

    only scattered farther

    by the ambiguity of dreams.

    .

    reaching

    for a towel

    to dry myself off,

    I think about the previous tenants,

    so curious of the other artists

    and

    where they are today.

    as far as I know,

    none of them ever became famous

    or even important

    or that accomplished,

    though

    some I've heard

    have gone crazy

    and there have been more

    than a few who have since died,

    and

    the entire matter

    quickly adds up to possibly nothing more

    than probably having

    so many dreams

    .

    in color.

    .

    .

    ©2016 Miles Ciletti

Better browser, please.

To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.