4 02 2010

Someone said, “Hurricane Dolly.”
I thought they said Hurricane Dali
The Cyclone of Dreams
It must rotate clockwise,
a surrealist storm I imagined
melted clocks, rubber watches to illustrate
the flexibility of time and nature and sleep

the rats are the first to notice a drop in pressure
they evacuate the sewers and move to high ground
the weatherman stands on the beach with his microphone
slacks flapping like flags and equivocates
is this a category four or a category five?
the rats just want to stay alive
they sense that this is a surrealist storm
it looks like the perfect, normal storm
but something is different about Hurricane Dali
it’s a storm of dreams
in this dream I smoke Lucky Strikes
in this dream I lose my virginity
the drama makes it worthwhile, a necessity
Fellini directs all of my dreams, you see

in this dream God was Walt Disney
And Arafat His dark angel
He kept creating weird beings from charcoal
and giving them names like Pedophile and Terrorist.
They all smoked Lucky Strikes.
no broken criticisms
just a whiff of foul play and exorcism

the problem is
I know too much to smoke Lucky Strikes
but I smoke them anyway
the pilgrims are all in their private comas
the cubicles of our isolation
to be partitioned, segmented, surveyed
now the clocks are running backwards
when you are asleep or enraptured
dreams have their solitary logic

the crime is taking and giving
it lasts as long as a DNA test
identity swabbed with religion
don’t squirrel me
I’m a mobius bastard intact
a rubber femur and cracked elastic
still I smoke Lucky Strikes, like Arafat
staring cancer in the eye
a grim repeater, racist of doom
the room where I really live is immaculate
like Mary floating on a lilly
virgins don’t need vacuum cleaners

the flies have grown almost to the size of Hummers
crutches are beginning to fly through the air
lodging themselves in Catholic churches and telephone poles
now it’s beginning to rain crucifixes and rabbits like fuzzy hailstones
the wind is a negative wind, it sucks instead of blows
and the El Topo match houses explode in dreams

In this one
I dream of running a monastery
but just until I retire
then I want to open a whorehouse
and be my own best customer
Jay Leno can’t tell me jokes
The last laugh is mine
I am the Communist Manifesto
or I dreamed I was
of risk and residue
a cramped analysis
imagine the smell of angels burning
just the stinking wings plummeting
that’s the smell of a Lucky Strike

I fucked two sisters in my dream
they both had their pubic hairs shaved in shape
one a heart and the other a diamond
not playing with a full deck, wouldn’t let me
light up afterward said there was no smoking in dreams not even a Lucky Strike
that’s when the black suits arrived
clubs and spades to stir the dream
like a hurricane stirs the Gulf of Mexico

I went to Athens that year,
after the fall of Democracy
I was with Yassir again
He led me through the Jerusalem of my dreams
he was a thief and a teacher
lit a Lucky and said,
‘spare me the burden of dying rich
It would betray my essence
to check out with too much equity
my vows of poverty mean nothing if they are drawing interest’

the melting clocks are running backwards now
as the eyewall approaches and the event horizon blurs
and then the profoundest thing occurs
in my dream, I realized that I was dreaming
It was a stunning revelation like bliss relaxing
I wanted to write it down so I would
be sure to remember it when I woke,
but you never can find a pen in dreams
so in my dream I went to sleep.
when I opened my eyes
it was afternoon and I needed a Lucky Strike




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