In my dream I can feel the syllables of her breath as the moist quill
of her tongue enters my left ear and brushes across the side of my neck
before her entire dream sonnet buoys in my mouth, even though
in the dream I am engaged to an African American woman--even
though in the dream the friend whose body I find myself
wading into like a pond is my friend Nellie, who speaks 8 different
languages and likes Ethan Hawke, whose hair is the refulgent color
leaves cast in late-Autumn reflecting a clean sheets of timeless invisible
sunlight--Nellie who I once kissed two summers ago in the quad
by the ribbed-cage monument known throughout campus as the
Silver Vagina because we were embracing in the whistle
clean lavender dusk of magic realism of early June, which she pulled
back, laughing, saying, "I can't believe you just kissed my mouth!!"
Which made me laugh, even though I felt more for her at the time.
Back pedal two hours earlier in the night and you will find a shirtless
author writhing alone on the altar of his mattress, bathing in a
fountain of random images, his eyelids REM'ing out of control as
he finds himself in Wrigley field of all places, blessed to be accompanied
by the buoyant spiritual silhouette of my father to my left, to my
right the son of the woman who inspires me to no end,
batting his curious ingenue-eyelids in the direction of the field
wanting to know if he could have a hamburger.....back pedal
two more hours in a cushion of sleep and I find myself
moving into my friends Tim Flanagan's old house on
Sherman---it was the house my dream muse first
visited me with a heap of books and a dilapidated car
four years earlier and I now found msyelf moving
from the front porch, into the basement
toy guts were splattered every where like
mascot intestines and in the room a man bejeweled in
white perhaps beckoned me to proceed.....

(morning March 18th)