Read this in Bed.

Filmic Canterburries
Dance through my head,
Never moralizing like old Chaucer,
But rather pointed
Like Mountain Goats songs about
Meth-heads and lust,
Writerly like docu-voiceovers
and twisted with Tarantino Epigrams.

Someone asked me to carbonize them
or at least lighten them to air, voice,
but their substance
compounds too heavily
in my skull to scrape thoroughly,
stuck the ecstasy and terror
as they flick in my mind's eye.

A canvas could edge them elegantly
(If I were one to paint,
colors confuse me)
but only a crawling one,
flesh incarnate and walking,
running, breathing, singing,
stretched tight across the wood frame
that will rot or burn away,
In time leaving stiff silver images,
screened life-thoughts,
as a memorial to
my own meandering mind.