My dreams rarely interfere.

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.

Dream (10/07/07)

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.


  1. This I did not get. I can only imagine that you have all this jumble of imagery in your head and you translate it into words and it becomes a poem. I do better with the prose pieces. You are good, abstract but good.

  2. Thank you! I don’t know if I get it all either. Like I said, writing down dreams rarely, if ever, works for me. It’s definitely more of a string of images than a narrative. I don’t mind that sometimes.

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