I am a rock in this bed, but the dreams are as soft as silence.
A collection of patterns, myriad shapes
all too accidental to digest.
I am trapped under absurdity's grasp,
my better judgment panicking on the sidelines,
while sour faced young maidens
are putting dandelions in their ears.
And then there he is, Mr. Wonderful, spinning on his head,
singing out my praises like a politician,
and he said, "Heaven is like waiting at the DMV"
and I wasn't quite sure what he meant.
Suddenly, I'm in the market,
dancing with the radishes on aisle three
and I too am a radish, red, pink, but
bitten white underneath.
Markus joins in our routine,
kisses me on the cheek, disappears into the light
after coaching on deep sea diving, Buddha, and life.
My sister shows up, says it's time to leave,
but the leaves of the radishes are clinging to me
and I holler something about the winds of change.
The radishes are bleeding their paint across the floor
and my eyes are salivating.
Then I'm running full speed with a Cadillac on my tail.
I am a puma on the streets of LA, a cat in my own state,
I trip over my paws and fall into a manhole,
too soon startling myself awake.
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