Dream sketch #3
In a dream that tastes of plums
My mother on her someday deathbed confesses to my bald head
That she’s been gone since 1983, long before I could have happened
And I spiral away into the realization of my falseness
I suspect that the waking world is topsoil
Watering potted plants at the windowsill
I speak to them kindly as if they were children
Unable to comprehend their future of either withering or being thrown to the hunger of something bigger
Most of the true primal tundric joy has been milked out like another cow
Moo-strapped to the teat of oil rig short term contraptions belching want
A string of iron twists in our pocahontas-bellies
Most, but not all
I pour water on the little plants
Cool as a secret resting on my lips