Flickers of jibber jabber hodgepodge mishmash
sometimes scary sometimes sentimental
mostly mysterious in the blankest blandest most boring banal ways
broken nocturnal images emitted from your busted-locks attics
and bogeyman crawlspaces with their tattered brain-stained yearbooks
where Freud and Jung play three-dimensional chess blindfolded
and where your unmitigated unconscious unspools unfiltered
and all of it destined for the cutting-room floor
unqualified even for amusing outtakes or blooper reels
and certainly won’t make the final cut for your director’s cut.
You call those things dreams? Dreams?
You mean dregs, don’t you?
You don’t even remember them — tens of thousands in your lifetime
and you remember really remember none nada zilch zero
even those you think you remember
you remember for a half day if you’re lucky
and then they’re as gone as the ancestors you never knew and never will
and if you write down those precious few dreams you recall it’s no big deal
they mean little or nothing as the jibber jabber hodgepodge mishmash loses
whatever imagined magic conjured the moment they become ink on paper.
They’re not dreams anyway.
A dream is a goal a plan a fantasy an aspiration
it’s faith and it’s hope and it’s love
it’s Martin Luther King Jr.’s visions vaulting into the rhetorical stratosphere.
Your nighttime faux Fellini phantasmagoria?
That’s the stuff of illogical psychological landfill
mixed with regurgitated recycling mixed with wormy compost
and good luck with the thankless dirty job of separating all that
let alone extracting any rhyme or reason or any source — other than
that midnight snack four-cheese pizza (with extra anchovies).