Writing Dreams

Dreams are weird creatures of our mind, aren’t they?  I don’t really remember much of mine, maybe a sliver here or a shudder there.  I know there are countless websites, books and mentors that will tell you to keep a dream journal.  Yeah.  I can barely get my ass out of bed on time, much less in enough time to write down what I had dreamed. 

So I play this game with myself, where I repeat details of my dream (should I have one/remember it) while I’m in the shower, getting dressed, driving to work and sitting at my desk.  I keep on until I find the right moment to jot it down.  Only, I have yet to be able to write down a dream as an actual “story.”  Instead, it materializes as a poem.

Here’s what I got:

I was dreaming,

our house was burning down
smoke exhaling from the windows
like a,
whatever image you’d like it
to take on

a train
a plane
a diesel truck
an old broad in a bingo parlor

we stood in the street
but we weren’t in pajamas

we were dressed beautifully
and my hair was stacked and piled
on top of my head

the whole look was done


you leaned over and inhaled me
in my favorite spot,
between earlobe
and neck

holding hands,
we watch our place
implode on itself

with angry fires
that licked at
weak limbs
and trusses

I heard all our poems
screaming in anguish
from the broken windows

You squeezed my wrist,
I like when you do that-
and my bones kind of
crinkle under your fingers

I watched your mouth move
as you said,
‘We can start the game over now,”

only that didn’t come from your mouth,
it came from overhead

and as I glanced upwards
I saw a light click on

and people were walking over us

you and I
we weren’t living,
we were in a snow globe,

only there was no fake snow
and we were watching our
house burn down

When I smiled at you,

I had a giant gap between my teeth

you blew me a kiss
as our place crumbled to it’s
metaphorical knees


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