don’t get much odder than this, mister
You were not there in my dream of you.
arrived like birds gathering before a migration
hovering, landing nearby,
turning from raindrops into clouds
and back into raindrops.
I knew we were in the vicinity of the old homestead
but everything felt
a bit strange. Why the fake nose?
Why the clown shoes? Why the greasy piano?
Old mother crow in her ebony housecoat and indigo babushka
smoked a pipe and puffed smoke signals to the moon.
She wore bottle cap
glasses and kept flicking
scraps of used light from her ever-busy wings.
Such are dreams they provide us with pictures
that invite analysis but do not demand it.
the same midnight that surrounds my sleep
babies are being born deals are going down.
The dreaming dog’s restless legs churn
if to escape from a primordial menace.
When the night shift cop flips a switch
his cruiser begins to flash and howl.
the road they barrel, sheriff and thief,
until the sorry climax of the episode
explodes in silent fireworks a million miles away.
Do not ask if it makes any sense.
Death walks toward us from the factory ruins
dangling a set of keys from
a bony finger.
The night watchman turns to you and asks
if you want to meet the author, so you answer
yes or no depending on the
intensity of your fear.
I have learned so far is that in certain souls
what you would call light is barely visible
and consists mainly of what remains
spending all the lottery winnings on darkness.
- by Walt Cybulski