My Human Disguise.
#471
I ask myself, who dreams the dream?
In real time “I” experience
Oddities and “life.” Like a beam
Flashed along a picket fence,
“I” find in each gap an event —
From where inside me was it sent?
“I” play a game of pool and lose.
“I” feel the loss, see the table.
Who changes the scene? “I” didn’t choose.
Now “I’m” gliding as if on a cable.
There is another I in the “I” —
Stage manager and audience.
It’s stronger than “I.” This dreaming eye
Sees “me” seeing the picket fence.
#472
He dreamed the sun devoured by the moon.
He dreamed the moon deflowered by the sun.
The stars blinked their tiny eyes at the ruin.
His slinging guitar became a shotgun
And with one blast picked off every star
Then turned back into a slinging guitar.
He took off his wings when he went to sleep.
They kept him as warm as the woolen sheep
Of old counting — that didn’t work at all.
So warm his feet and face had turned brick red,
He rode into a lukewarm waterfall
On a black mule, back as wide as a bed.
I saw all this through his closed eyes, not mine,
Yet he wrote this goggling, every line.
