It’s rare that I ever have a creatively useful dream. Most of the time my dreams are more like murmurs in a theater or bad action movie sequences. Not much useful there. Every now and then something happens that just stays with me. Here is one of the very few poems that I have pieced together from a dream.
A stranger and his son are in my kitchen.
They slice venison sausage
for their first fishing trip together.
From the bathroom, I watch their shadows
cut the light of the kitchen underneath the door.
I am in a large, warm bath,
an inch from overflowing.
The bathroom light is off, but I know that someone
has left a silver ring at the bottom of the tub.
I leave the bath and go
to my Gorgon lover.
A head on a pillow on a bed.
Snakes away, eyes open.
I run to the living room where
a raccoon and two dogs,
heavy with grey and brown and white tumors
like water balloons ready to erupt from their skin,
scratch at the door.
I like red peppers and Jan Svankmajer movies.
1. Current Listening: May Day by Silica Gel
2. Current Viewing: "Uncle Yanco" (1967).
3. Current Reading: Ottessa Moshfegh: Death In Her Hands