dreams

I dreamt that you died, and
you were really nice
to me right before – which
should have been some kind of a
giveaway, shouldn’t it –
and in the dream I wanted to cry
but I couldn’t.

I kept trying to find
all my old poems about you
to show you that I loved you
but I couldn’t.

and it didn’t matter anyway because
you were already dead.

then I was playing a video game
and I thought you
would have liked it.

I guess it’s like the song says:
a long time ago
we used to be friends, but I
haven’t thought of you
lately at all.

the window III

I dreamt of sex and
woke to find you missing.
I waited, patience growing
thin, hoping to tell you
in person and maybe in
so doing, remember my passion.
but hours later, the dream
has gone and my blood’s
gone cold. I’m languishing
instead. it seems
you missed the window.

maybe that will teach you
not to stray quite so far
from my side, or maybe
it will teach me
not to dream.

what the dreaming self knows

in my dreams I am
a powerful witch
whose enemies line up
and ask me to punch them
right in the face.

in the waking
world I’m plagued by
itches and pains,
dirt, doubts and laundry.

I think about quitting
smoking and take every
opportunity to berate
myself. I take down
a flystrip that’s been up
since at least August.
I am interrupted in
reading an article about
how people who hit
the snooze button are
more intelligent and creative
by having to sign for a
Staples delivery
of bulk toilet paper.
I make myself coffee
at 3 pm even though
I’ve done nothing
to deserve it, and try not
to be jealous
of a young poet
whose quote appears
in my Facebook memories.

I wish I could have all
the confidence and courage
to make things happen
that my dreaming self
knows is mine by right
of existence, that feeling
that I’m capable
and undaunted
and powerful.

what can I do
to keep that bone-deep
knowledge, carry it back
like a knapsack
from the dreaming hinterlands
to the world where
I’m still myself
on the physical plane?

to my most unhelpful subconscious

Look. I did not need
that dream. haven’t we decided that
nothing good
can come of this obsession? did you
think it was cute, to make me dream that he
got all up in my face and
my eyes got so huge and
I didn’t know if it was from fear
or from desire and
maybe it was both and then
you had the nerve to make him
kiss me. even in
my own damn dream, he seemed
sort of angry about it.

point taken, subconscious,
you dick. there’s nowhere I can go
to escape this awful knowledge
that it’s never going to happen
and I should just
get over it. thanks a fucking
lot.