I Dream I Am Your Racist Facebook Uncle
In the dream I am driving
an antique bayonet
into the stomachs
of my daughters’ suitors yelling
return on investment.
In the dream the drift
of accumulating bodies
in my three car garage piles
so large my truck
must sleep outdoors.
In the dream I attempt dreaming
my garage fourth-car-ness,
but alas, I am my poor
Silverado conked-out beneath
the stars (American) dreaming Chevy dreams:
like I’m tearing down
Jackson Avenue when from
my undercarriage my all chrome-alloy
cock sprouts and sprouts
its own 36-point rack of antlers and
I’m catching every yellow light
streaky, reflecting.
It occurs to me that part of me
is a driver’s seat wherein someone is seated
and that someone is me, driving.
It doesn’t “occur to me” but I somehow
understand that I am also the wasted spark,
the windshield unfogging, the rainwater
that funnels thru my all-season tread.
In the dream you could say
the space my body occupies
takes on a dream-like quality.
For example, we load
a riding lawnmower into me
and it’s me. We trade
that in for a riding leafblower (me)
which we trade for a riding snowblower
(still me) to be traded
for a riding (me also) flamethrower
for in my dream it is so cold.
In the dream I am melting
ice floes from my circular driveway
when I see it petrified,
aglow, there beneath my snowy image:
true history.
In the dream I wake
much older. My siblings much older
have had children.
These children say things
to the internet.
I see my hands.
I feel their typing.
Andrew Dally |