My Dream is a Tape Recorder

it only takes very little to be happy—
when I finished my meditations on infinity
when my delusions of grandeur dissolved
when the brand on my bones and necklace faded
when I suddenly stopped thinking of myself as
Jesus, Bob Dylan, Gauss and Vonnegut
(jr.) at the same time when
the word soon made sense to me

and I’ll say it again: when it seems
that clouds never take the shape of a guitar, lathe, carousel, coffee tin
slide ruler, collar bone or wisdom teeth,
when I realize I have no choice but to roam
hands in my pockets
among colors in ruins,
when I knew that I don’t think with my brain, and nothing depends on me

and I won’t stop there:
when I was forced to have an apartment and a job
but thought this life too meager for me
when I was stuffed with moles, benign tumors boring into me
when I read Dostoevsky without wincing
when I, the wondrous spectacle, stood in line at the store,

I thought I’d buy a reel-to-reel tape recorder,
Kashtan, two thousand dollars,
because I like listening to music the most
and I would so love to have such a nice thing
listening to me

often
leaving from school, I’d stop in the electronics stores
on Strada Doamna Ghica
and I saw the beautiful tape recorder I was promised
her cute, boxy figure
her gentle, smart reels
her flickering, green LEDs—
there, on display
between two delicate, black speakers
and now she is my dream, when all other dreams are gone.

ah her plexiglas, hypnotic reels
their uneven, lazy turns…