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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