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Paul David Thomas  (email)


About the Poet:

Paul is a 27-year-old emerging author that has been writing fiction and non-fiction for nearly ten years. He has previously published an assortment of poetry and short stories in various e-zines and nationally published magazines. Paul is currently an English Major at the University of California at Berkeley.





I am the hypnopomp:

From under this umbrella

I peek with child-like eyes

at the creatures that torment my sleep.


The heat, the pressure in my stomach

encourage me to plummet

back to the hypnogog,

where colors taste like perfume,


and creatures play musical notes

with such significant impairment

that their movements are a concerto,

yet still I want to awake.


This submarine

in this unconscious water

that I live in at night

is cold and short on oxygen

and descends toward ensconcing depths.


Certain agents react in this small confine

and the shadows provided are ineffectually dull.

In the delirium sounds a tremulous call

that sends a spark to the amygdalae-

and at once he is out of bed.


Eyes have been stained with age,

heart has been tired with pain,

but still the angel calls

requesting I be human.


Do not blame me for her indiscretions,

I am forgiving of my hollow metal tube.

While it sinks I sway, and stay where safe to be I feel.

And still what I wish to be,

disappears and appears the eyes, condense.


Frozen poisoned stones,

bleached and boiled bones,

fractal images stacked upon shadows.

Most of these words are edible.                     



Vino Noir


Black wine in a crystal glass,
shimmering in the light
of the candle's flame.
She on the other side
          across the table
          and white tablecloth
          stares at the blood-
          like liquid night.

Smooth air rushes from windows
blowing her hair softly.
                    She shudders
          and closes her eyes
          and opens her mind,
and the night becomes day-
and the candle becomes
a precious radiant stone,
but the wine is still black-
and my name still unspoken.

It hides under her tongue,
          inside her cheek,
in the back of her throat,
in between the fine hairs
          of her breast-
my name is dark and secret,
though she knows it but

          afraid to invoke.

          The wind blows again
and she is no longer silent,
the candle is no longer a jewel,
the night is no longer day,
but the wine is still black
and my name still unspoken.

And her eyes still not open-
but a black bird crashes
          through the window
          and dies on the table
but does not spill the wine,
          while woman speaks
in some other language,
some language not spoken
          for millions of years,
perhaps only by angels
          or demons or
by God's own Voice the Word
                    the Will
          the silent love-

The secret mystery to

          invoke, to secure

          a place in the sky
among the other stars
          past an abyss
          cold and vast
and beset by pain

          and suffering-

Now her eyes are no longer

closed and the black bird

          no longer dies.
But the wine is still black
and my name still unspoken.