The Strangest

The Strangest

2-8-2011

I dream the strangest of things
Before I fall asleep I wonder,
“I really hope these dreams are fascinating,
That their perspective changes mine, we will
Grow together these dreams and I”
And that’s what happens (sometimes)

The strangest is when you check your phone
(you’rein sideof ad ream, sot hingsm akel ittles ense)
And you’re roommate wakes you with his presence
And you’ve no phone in your hand, no mug of coca-cola
No ice-cub trays to defy room temperatures or sublime lights
But you’ve such interesting eyes- closed as they are, they see

I’ve loved nearly all the dreams that take me unwilling
Into strange ‘scapes covered by kudzu, bordered by rivers
Tangled in emotions and arguments, frightened near to death
Being covered by the dreary skies, the pastures of sunflowers
Trapped in virtual worlds created by the powerful brain
Walking down dusty hallways, rooms hidden- but known by the eye.

No fantastic colors or extreme monsters apart from large creatures
Or vague expansion of knowledge, the dancing woman-fate in the window
Producing faux conversations with close friends and aquaintances
Wishing for clear teal skies with the wind blowing fierce and smiling
And happy happy happy but for the creeping silence and depression
(The pressure building on my brain) poured onto paper, bubbling

With enthusiasm as ?I? wake from a dream in which I am flying
And.I.Try.To.Remember.Every.Detail but I cannot recall some
Yet I write furiously or attempt to remember excitedly what my mind made
What my brain said, “Dream dear boy, dream until you are lost”
Well you almost won there, Mr. Conscience, with no conscious
As to my sanity, how it is constantly pressed for time and check-ups

Where the buildings have little time to defend themselves with robbers
And I upstairs with a skinny woman that needs to protect herself from the
Coming offenders, the killers running up the staircase screaming- yet silent
Until they knock on, knock down the door and I am waiting fiercely, biding fastidiously
For them to come up, to knock down the door so I can ravage them, I can tear
Their throats, and open their chests; that woman doesn’t need to die, she’s too scared

Well on lighter notes, a motorcycle fell in the river and the jungles are covered with wet mist
And I know their paths, laden as they are with traps and mines- they cannot touche me
I am an explosion, myself, of thoughts and clever plan to evade the clasps and clutches
Of hunters employed by my mind to evade and chase a spirit that doesn’t exist as it runs
Or the kind giant that leads me through the fields of dense crops whetted with the horizon
The sunset of memory that exists every evening outside home, outside senses (clever, clever)

Punctilious notes scribbled illegibly for the creative craven who desires freedom
Tantalizing tales without seductive tee-vee harpies, only the real women created inside [her]e
Rooms crowded with people yelling and talking loudly, silent on the rebound- -
The eyes that see, that know the layouts of every school I’ve ever been in, remembers well
Finds the strong and makes it weak, then powerful again in its eyes- but that’s a side story
And all I’ve left is the mind that makes, that forges a thousand stories and leaves me mute.

James P. McCabe