Poetry: Selections From R.J. Schmitz

Gloryh*le Boredom

 

*There’s a curtain somewhere in town. Behind the curtain there’s a wall. In the wall there’s a hole. People line up in front of the curtain. When their turn comes, they walk through the curtain and return a few minutes later, happier than before. No one knows what you’ll see in the hole, except for those who’ve already stepped through. No one can reveal what happens behind the curtain. So the hole in the wall, hidden by the curtain, is known as Le Secret. When I get bored, across the hole I imagine a wonderland.

Psychoanalysis

 

So, I’m going to read a text which is a loose translation from French of a dream I had, and wrote down right after waking up.

 

Here we begin.

 

I dreamt I went to a dinner but the plates were covered in moths and dust, and the glasses filled with withered grapes. I was spreading my word into speeches I don’t know yet, pithy poetry on my lips and wide-eyed sincerity, I enthralled my audience, etched my name into the wood of the lectern, I was burning on stage. Then the moths turned back into grubs, the dust became molasses, the guests standing, grins on their faces, raised their glasses now full of grey wine. I wonder why no one ever toasts to failure.

 

Spare me your interpretation, honey! I can tell you my dreams are prophetic.

 

 

 

 

 

R.J. Schmitz is a self-proclaimed writer. His work can be found at Be About It Press, Future Imperfect Journal, Michigan City Review, Some Words and elsewhere on the web and beyond. Instagram: @live910608