Dreams


	ERIC GREEN
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DREAMS

Nights, busier than most days,
Certainly more violent, more sexual,
More star-fucking historical.
Last night it was the Babe and me
On the bench of the house he built,
Chewing on cigars, trading tales;
The Babe rising to clobber one
Now and then, the long balls lifting
Into the cobalt ceiling of the stadium;
The Babe smiling, sauntering back
Handing me his polished bat.

But the ones where I give fair warning
Just to be left alone that no one heeds
And then the blood and the mashing bone
My fists carve away the malice
Till I have impaled the bodies
With gruesome death
And awake in sweat.

Or the best ones where
Suddenly I know I am dreaming
And quickly strip down, then leap
Through a massive window high up
The glass and mullions parting
And I fly low over lush land
Gently masturbating, scouting women,
Entering towns, lingerie shops, bars,
The tiled harem bathhouses of Sodom,
My horn like a pulsing purple joy stick,
The women eager, abandoned, lewd,
Goddesses--though have yet to
Make vulnerable blonde Marilyn
Materialize.

Or the more relaxed flying dreams
Where it begins with levitation and
Then I project missile-like toward heaven,
Wonderful way above the tree line
To soar over great open ravines, Once
Through endless ornate rooms of a castle,
It always seems so ridiculously possible
(Why haven't I realized this sooner?)
Or the early leaping ones that required
Long lifting jumps to distance gravity,
To out distance the forever ground, then
To lose altitude as you awaken.

I walk across a town square, there
James Dean hunched next to his Porsche.
"I can drive this as good as you can,"
I taunt, and we alternate the wheel,
Rocketing the silver car up back roads,
Under canopies of vivid green leaves
in slanting strobing light.
Later I tell Dean I must return
To the other place as he nods, but
Wishes to send me back with a word,
The most important word he says,
A word as a gift, the word
Feel.