More Dreams

For three nights running I have had the strangest dreams. 

For three nights running I have awakened far too early

as a result of the strangest dreams I have ever had—

and this is precisely why I shouldn’t be allowed

to dream. 

 

You see,

the first one was the first-ever recurring dream I’ve ever had,

and was overflowing with magic:

 

we’re talking about a dreamscape that

includes ever single landscape I have

ever seen, and perhaps a few I haven’t,

all viewed from the top of a hill where

I am an apprentice wizard to a rather

bumbling Merlin, a la Sword in the

Stone, and somehow I am the link

that makes movement between the

world of the magical Merlin-house

and the world of suburbia that it sits

directly on top of—such that should

I find myself driving down a road

I can see both of these weird worlds:

 

one out of the right eye

and

one out of the left eye.

 

Meanwhile, Merlin’s lessons only serve to remind me

that magic is a bonus in life, and it ought to be treated

with respect and humor:

“Never abuse, Mac, or it might wind up abusing you.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Speaking of “Sirs”…

(and for a guy who just generally doesn’t dream

I certainly manage to have some awkward ones.)

 

Imagine a sultry South American somewhere—

away from the bright lights and big cities—

where there are rustic old hotels with balconies of rotting wood

and bars for which the only appropriate moniker would be saloon.

 

Now, inject into this scene my truncated family

composed primarily of my mother, myself and

my father’s father—a motley crew to be sure.

 

I don’t know why,

and I only report it because it’s a fact:

my grandfather went mad

and people were suddenly shooting at him.

 

As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember going into camera mode

and following him down as he jumped from the balcony of our

hotel and hit the ground running—and he unceremoniously

caught two bullets directly in the chest. 

 

Not that this could stop him. 

He cried out:

“I’m American!

You’re gonna have to do better’n that!”

 

Whereupon the invisible gunman put

two more in his face, sending his brain through the back of his head and splattering it all across the window

of an intercity bus—the old-school curvy kind with no air conditioning… you know the one—that had been parked by the sidwalk.

 

My mother’s look of horror I will never forget.

Nor will I forget how she cocked her head to the side,

looked at the window,

spoke to herself in a near whisper and said:

 

“What a curious shade of yellow.”

 

That makes three mornings running

I’ve awakened in cold sweats,

way too early to be ok,

and lain awake wondering for far too long:

 

what could it possible all mean?

 

For some reason,

the in-sink-erator of my mind

is working again,

or malfunctioning again (however

you want it put),

and it’s ever so slightly scary.