05-20-2021, 10:03 PM
Dreamtime News*
I.
Nausea of dreamtime:
a shaggy black horse
that I must ride like Dante.
This circle of Hell is a rodeo
and I'm a quaking greenhorn.
But it's too wild to saddle
so I think I'm saved.
My joy is short-lived.
While my wife sleeps
I must babysit another beast,
a black hairy pig, shaggy like the horse,
it slips out of every fence I build
out of canned foods and chairs.
A drifter stops to help me pen it
(just across the road, a dirt road
that borders this dream
lies Mexico.
There the pig must not go.)
The drifters alerts me that the pig has horns.
Sleep sweats out
these words made flesh
to frighten Hell and breakfast
out of every night.
II.
My wife, our cat and I
prisoners subjected to fiendish breeding experiments
that lack all terror
though we know we inhabit a Hitler camp
but they resemble the push-ups
described in a sex manual
that a preacher gave my brother
just before his marriage.
The cat receives injections.
My wife is worried.
During a quiet walk around a running track
Uncle Adolf assures me
the cat will recieve no more injections.
I say to my wife,
"So, we can escape on Saturday."
*this is a dream poem written circa 1982
I.
Nausea of dreamtime:
a shaggy black horse
that I must ride like Dante.
This circle of Hell is a rodeo
and I'm a quaking greenhorn.
But it's too wild to saddle
so I think I'm saved.
My joy is short-lived.
While my wife sleeps
I must babysit another beast,
a black hairy pig, shaggy like the horse,
it slips out of every fence I build
out of canned foods and chairs.
A drifter stops to help me pen it
(just across the road, a dirt road
that borders this dream
lies Mexico.
There the pig must not go.)
The drifters alerts me that the pig has horns.
Sleep sweats out
these words made flesh
to frighten Hell and breakfast
out of every night.
II.
My wife, our cat and I
prisoners subjected to fiendish breeding experiments
that lack all terror
though we know we inhabit a Hitler camp
but they resemble the push-ups
described in a sex manual
that a preacher gave my brother
just before his marriage.
The cat receives injections.
My wife is worried.
During a quiet walk around a running track
Uncle Adolf assures me
the cat will recieve no more injections.
I say to my wife,
"So, we can escape on Saturday."
*this is a dream poem written circa 1982