I get lost in a neighborhood,
trying to cut
through,
but the roads just go on and on,
a maze with no end.
The houses get more and more
decrepit; and then
I see a parked car, painted like a zebra.
But I am awake.
*
In a dream,
my dad buys me a car, painted like a zebra;
yet I can’t be sure;
which zebra car came first?
*
To tell myself that I am dreaming in the day
is to pull a release lever on my furrowed brow.
I give myself permission to be the listener,
the watcher,
the dull one at the party where the walls dance better than I.
I am the dreamer with no opinion.
*
Tired of debate, tired of ideas,
I prefer my meowing session with the tiger
camped outside my door,
the rain on my roof,
I mean my skull,
counting out the change;
this thunder never stops,
a hallway never ends.
Boiled down to just bare eyes and ears,
I have no thing to teach,
no theory on which to base my lessons.
*
Can we dream together while we are waking up
instead of all this talking to make sense?
Patterns exist in the night and in the day –
But I will not be mapping it out –
I know how it ends and so do you,
but who is directing the film?
David Lynch gets a guest spot, I’m sure.
S – Thank you for the book and the blurring of the lines; see me irreversibly lost in a dream.