I take to the dream like an old familiar place
which I’ve been to a thousand times; yet,
it’s been years since my last trip to the brownstones.
I see the old familiar corners of back home
where eyes were bright and youth was wild.
I remember us as longhaired maniacs.
We looked to find our way around mediocrity
and tried to promote own own rebellion,
one scar at a time.
I remember us with sneaky little eyes,
beady as ever and mainly bloodshot.
This was fun (at first)
and then . . .
a man with a white horse trailed through town one day.
He came in with a new bag of tricks
and left behind a heavy mist and a demon’s smile,
as if to say
“Hey, wanna see something cool?”
So we did
I don’t do well with these interpretations.
At least, not when it comes to dreams.
Instead, I see dreams like this
as a rumble from an old remnant of my history
I understand this as a figment of my past
or a fragment of memory which connects me to times,
like say, a bus ride which took place a long,
long time ago.
Or better yet, this reconnects me
with the cognizant memory of incoherent times.
Two moons above in the sky.
One is real and the other is more heavenly
yet I know this is only a mirage – it’s a hallucination,
the second moon; hovering in the vast empty space
dangling, lingering in the stature of a weightless sky,
removed from the weight and gravity (like me)
and me, I just suffered a loss from a man
in the Beach Streets in Rockaway – but not too bad.
Papool (remember him?)
There were countless others
who howled to the gods of white horse lies
and trailed along the streets as if to be half bent,
like a tall blade of grass, blowing weightless
in the segments of their concrete territory
It’s a journey. I have come this far and hence;
I know there is more to see and more to do.
It’s like I said, I don’t worry too much
about the interpretation of these dreams.
I see them as a rattle from an infant;
it’s a noisemaker in need of attention – or better yet,
I see this as the younger version of me
too afraid to try and too afraid not too.
Do you want a metaphor?
I equate this to anxiety
to a childhood memory of knowing
there was a call home or a note in the mail – and me,
all I wanted to do
was get home first to intercept this
Or be exposed . . .