Everything is Made from Dreams
-after Tom Waits
by Sam Rasnake
Box
A life, after all the doing and being, comes down to a few pitiful things left in a cardboard box – the top flaps layered shut – to keep out? or keep in, possibly? – in a dark attic which could be anywhere but isn’t, which could have been stored there by anyone but wasn’t. One day, there’ll be no one left to remember what a person most wants or needs – or has given or taken – as one season bleeds into another its slow and deceptively vicious circle – and the knowing slips away – one by one – until there’s nothing left, until the time is closed, until faces and names are smeared invisible like the words – written to identify but now unreadable, with the blankness of what was once recognized, believed – then put away.
“And everything’s a dollar in this box”
– from “Soldier’s Things”
Globe
The world? Ours? We hide it from everyone – even from our own hearts – in a last shot at self-preservation, maybe. Its mountains and hollows, its rivers and rock faces we swallow. The birds in the woods are dessert. The tracks scattered in the night are our desires. We smile and say we could live here. We’re smug in our contented ways, and never budge if we don’t want to. But when the past grabs your throat and won’t let go – that’s when you know it’s time to uncover the ears of anyone who’ll listen and begin the tale: It’s the one place I thought of as safe, but I wasn’t. I remember the metal globe – all blue & brown & green & white – a birthday gift – with its boundaries, countries, and seas cleanly marked. I’d spin it – closing my eyes – then using my finger, I’d stop it, and where I landed was my dream – was the place I’d live my life – where I would die – my bones feeding a future I’d never know. It perched for years on the bookshelves in the den where I slept every summer to keep cool. It might still be there – the globe – gathering dust, turning slowly each night when no one is looking.
“I’ll tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past”
– from “Tango Till They’re Sore”
Ball
Somewhere in the old man is a child’s world – through the trauma, idyllic wonder, all the joys and pain and discovery – it’s never lost… the train at midnight, the first dead body seen, crows in the trees, baseball in the field on hot days, running, a ball hit over his head, but the last second extending his body, throwing it toward the wall of weeds by the seldom-used road, hitting the ground, a snow cone in the glove’s deep pocket – the miraculous catch, followed by the aaaaaaahhhhhh of an unseen crowd – there’s rain – and blizzards – a transistor radio’s static between stations and the music that would become the weave of life – in the garden, rows of corn, tomatoes, and beans – there are pies in the oven and herbs simmering on the stove – outside, more stars than he could ever name – a creek at the bottom of the hill with its snake doctors and lightning bugs – the rub of cricket wings in the bushes – walking the streets of town on Saturdays, church on Sundays, horror films on tv late at night with their castles and labs and mist in the dark forests filled with wolves – he was never the scientist or hero – always the monster – the one feared, the misunderstood, the hunted.
“It’s the memories that I’m stealing”
– from “Innocent When You Dream (78)”
Sam Rasnake, living in the shadow of the Cherokee National Forest, sends his work out into the world where they’ve appeared in numerous journals and anthologies such as Wigleaf, UCity Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Boudin (McNeese Review), Poets / Artists, Stone Circle Review, Best of the Web, Southern Poetry Anthology, and Bending Genres Anthology. He’s the author of four poetry collections and three chapbooks – most recently, Like a Thread to Follow (Cyberwit, 2023) and Fallen Leaves (forthcoming, Rare Swan Press). Follow Sam on Bluesky @samrasnake.bsky.social or Twitter @SamRasnake.