Sam’s Dream

Take it. And all the 
rest begins. The moon. Born of
human body. First thing will be the
visible. Clouds drift. The sun they will explain to you. Evaporation is a thing. What are we in or on that it stops
there but does not ever stop. How could that be. What was that
dream. Become Sam. Rock yourself. How far away it all becomes the more you enter. A name is
given you. MAY 30, 2018

This piece appears in the LARB Print Quarterly Journal: No. In order to become human. Kick so I can
feel you out here. There, as if a burning-off of mist, gone where—
not back, where would back be—dried away—a
sweetness going with it—no?—feel it?—I do—I
almost smell it as it is dissolved into the prior by
succession, by events, not raging, not burning, but
going—nothing like the loud blood-rush in the
invisible u & u in with its elasticities, paddlings, nets,
swirls. How much u have to disappear in order
to become. Why
shouldn’t all be the same thing? And lights inside the
light which can go out. All seems to be so
overfull at once. They tell u try to feel it 
turn. That u will see rains such as I
have never seen a thing. You are that place u displace. Push your hands against the
chamber. Perhaps one of the last conceived & carried in womb. In this disunion now stretch.  
 
¤
Jorie Graham is the author, most recently, of Fast and From The New World (Poems 1976–2014). You will see motes in light. Oh normalcy, what a
song I would sing you. She lives in Massachusetts and teaches at Harvard. Remain unknown. 18,  Genius
To receive the LARB Quarterly Journal, become a member  or  donate here. It is much
bigger, faster—try to hear out—this place you’re
being fired into—other in it—judgment of other—
logic, representation, nightmare—how to prepare
you—what do you dream—what must I sing—it says
you cry in there & laugh—out here a late October
rain has started down, soon you shall put your small
hand out & one of us will say slowly and outloud rain
and you will say rain—but what is that on your hand
which falling has come round again in the forever of
again to reach your waiting upturned hand. That dream. The last breath before the first
breath is mystery. Can you take it? One day you
glimpse it, the horizon line. They do not
stay. And then out here circumference. Not among the perfected ones yet. I look up
now. A different dark. Out you come into legibility. Welcome. Child u shall god willing come
out into the being known. The before u. Truest stranger. The before. I moisten my lips
and try to remember a song. This could have been a paradise my song begins. No,
this is, was, is, never will be again, will be, we hope
desperately wasn’t a dream, maybe in your dream
now there is a clue, can you dream the clue, you who
are dreaming what having had no life to dream of,
dream from—what populates you—bloodflow and
lightswirl, stammering of ventricles, attempts at
motion, absorbings, incompletions, fluidities—do you
have temptation yet, or even the meanwhile—such a
mature duration this meanwhile, how it intensifies
this present—or nevertheless—no beyond of course
in your dream what could be beyond—no
defeat as so far no defeat—cells hum—no partiality
as all grows in your first dream which is the dream of
what you are—is that right—no attempt as there is
no attempting yet—no privacy—I laugh to myself
writing the word—oh look at that word—no
either/or—but yes light filtering-in, root-darknesses,
motion—and the laughter, do you hear it from us out
here, us, can you hear that strain of what we call
sincerity—Oh. How
thin you are. I have to have a song to
sing you from out here.They say you now hear vividly. They do not stay. No. Dream of no running from fire, no being shoved
into mass grave others falling over you, dream of no
bot, no capture filter store—no algorithmic memory,
no hope, realism, knowing, no quest-for, selling-of,
accosting violently to have, no lemon-color of the end
of day, no sudden happiness, no suddenly. Amazing, you were not everything after
all. ¤
 
 
Sam’s Dream
One day there is no day because there is no day
before, no yesterday, then a now, & time, & a cell
divides and you, you are in time, time is in you, as
multiplying now u slip into our stream, or is it u grow
a piece of stream in us, is it flesh or time you grow,
how, is it an American you grow, week 28, when we
are told dreaming begins. A
mere human, all firsthand knowledge, flying in as if
kindling—natural. That falling all round u
is gazing, thinking, attempted love, exhausted love,
everything, or it is everyone, always going and coming
back from some place. It’s a thing, says the
stranger nearby, it’s a new thing, this stance this skin
like spandex closing over you, it’s you. Father and mother singular and known. Now here it is proffered again, this
sound which is you, do u feel the laving of it down all
over you, coating you, so transparent you could
swear it is you, really you, this Sam, this crumb of life
which suddenly lengthens the minute as it cleans off
something else, something you didn’t know was
there before, and which, in disappearing now, is felt. Take up space. You are so…surprised. The world is exhausted. Difference. That our only
system is awry a thing. That’s the first step of our dream, the dream of
here. Plain sadness, this hand-knit
sweater, old things, maybe u shall have some of—in
this my song—in my long song not telling u about the 
paradise, abandoning my song of what’s no longer
possible, that song, it is a thing. Know no daybreak
ever. And spirits,
wind exhaustion a heavy thing attached to you—your
entity—as u enter history and it—so bright, correct,
awake, speaking and crying-out—begins. Then u burn into gaze, thought,
knowledge of oblivion.