The lines lay on a screen, & as I begin to read them out loud, a low-key media show flashes behind, each slide synchronized to a single line, but with seamless watercolor movement. After I'm done, I realize the piece is pretty fucking piercing, with, of course, the attendant grumblings of why can't I write like that.
Then I wake up.
So I did write like that, but I can't remember any more than a stray word. If only my subconscious was flesh n' blood, I could kick it in the shins & tell it to get outta my house for beating the dead horse that is my poemetrick corpse if only it hadn't already paid for its n-year lease in full. If only.
I also dreamed that I got arrested by an overzealous cop for taking pictures of the outdoor stage where the pretzeldent's gonna drone on today & then had to call the Duchess & tell her that she was the opener during my indefinite incarceration. Like I wouldn't use my one phone call to ring my dealer.
