In my Dreams

Happy Halloween Writers!


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In My Dreams
When I meet some chick at the bar
and she asks me the most stupid question of all--
what do you do?
I don’t tell her about the shit jobs or the porn addiction
or the drinking just to stay sane.
That would be stupid.
I tell her I dream a lot, work really hard at it,
succeed, sometimes 8 hours a night.
C’mon, she says--what do you really do?
I guess she thinks I’m kidding.
In my dreams I have a ten inch cock and it never lets me down.
What?! she says.
I detect a look of disgust
as she puts on her jacket.
It’s unaffected by whiskey.
C’mon!
Ten inches!
Well, just like the others she leaves,
can’t handle the truth, I guess,
that dream-business is a viable answer
to her 3rd-grade question.
So I turn to the crazy old drunk to my left
She’s not judgmental at all.
I know--I’ve scoped her out two weeks.
And she ain’t putting on her jacket till 2 am.
It’s 10pm and I got a lot to say.
Last night was a fuckin’ blast, I said.
“Whah!” she said.
It’s the kind of good time that Louis Carroll would mark with a white stone, I said.
Ugh!
Yeah, I said.
Whenever he’d meet another little girlfriend
and trick her into posing for photographs he’d write in his diary,
I mark this day with a white stone.
Ugh!
Last night I flew
I flew over a scene of me and my childhood friends
playin’ baseball in Mark’s backyard.
Robbie and Kenny and Roland were there,
and so was the 9-year-old me, Mike G--
damn, I was beautiful kid, I said.
Scared as shit but beautiful.
Boo!!
She drained her shot, flipped me off.
Well-well you understand? I said.
I wasn’t a fuckin’ drunk yet.
I didn’t chain smoke.
I didn’t objectify women.
I looked into my eyes at nine,
I-I didn’t hate my life.
Shud up!
This was her way of saying, please continue.
Thanks, I said.
Flying was like sex on coke.
Your whole body cums and it never ends.
Aloft you cum and cum yet you’re perfectly aware,
ego intact, grateful like a god.
Drunk!
I swooped down and kissed my 9-year-old self on the lips.
I told little mike g it’ll be alright.
Hell is where the friends are,
where the love is,
where the tongue licks the tears.
Bastard!
I swung and missed at Mark’s pitch.
I looked up to myself for consolation
and my 40-year-old tear splashed on my 9-year-old forehead.
Before flying away to view the apocalypse
which was another fuckin’ great dream I looked back and--
Bet you can’t get it up!
That’s ok, I said.
That’s what 13 to 35’s for--I drink now.
As I was saying I looked back and 9-year-old mike g
was jumping up and down like it’s Christmas
waving at me and blowin’ kisses,
and so was Mark and Kenny and Roland.
Awake--
I’ve been loved,
I’ve loved,
but never like this.
In my dreams
it feels like healing,
and for the first time
the story
of my sadness
that I’ve always told myself
is funny.
Funny
in that it doesn’t matter.
I’m free.
Fuck you!!! [she said]
Thankyou, I say.
Thankyou.