dreams are… unpredictable.
at times, undecipherable.
they redefine reality and
undermine any guarantee of rhythm,
skipping measures and creating new sounds.
some pleasant and light, some decidedly not.
dreams can be undeniably ugly.

i have proof of this:
recently i dreamed a dream
of a rat without a face
slithering beneath my sheets
like a worm or a snake;
a scream rose in my throat,
but i did not wake.

i’ve had dreams of dying–
of being shot many a time but never ceasing;
the steady drip drop of crimson
staining japan’s lonely midnight streets.
i stumbled aimlessly, silently, eyes begging for help,
and i remember vividly, the deep set ache
of disappointment as i was left with myself.
in the end, clutching my throb of a wound,
i dolefully passed my mother in the hall;
i came back home,
i went to bed.
when i woke, i truly understood
what it was like to not exist.

there are more, countless more...
climbing endless foggy mountains,
and drinking tea from petri dishes
on a borderless snowy plain.
mental hospitals, shark tanks, cruise ships,
pho restaurants and italian motorcycling;
ghost towns, curses, canyons, serial killers,
treasure-hunts, food cravings, and amputees.
i’ve had dreams of things with wings
that should never have wings,
of evil parents that aren’t really so mean;
from fleeing authority as a framed fugitive
to composing music in my sleep.
i’ve had silly dreams of extra toes,
lovely friends and evil foes;
often, i wish i had more of those.

there is nothing i cannot dream.
fighting leagues and near-drowned canines;
standing two feet tall, cloaked in basil velvet,
chugging kegs and brawling giants;  
nibbling on little white fish after crucifixion;
being chased by giant yellow-eyed moose,
and stalked by an atrabilious old ghost.

i’ve had dreams i’d rather forget;
burned bodies huddled uselessly against carcass-like walls,
school shootings and carnival massacres.
even days later, the taste of evil still haunted my tongue.
my dog being cooked to eat
with his sad, droopy eyes pleading to me,
my panic so rough and weighty,
i almost woke up crying.

sometimes i am the tragic hero,
filled to the brim with self-pity.
sometimes it feels good to feel bad.
why not do so where no one can judge me,
when nothing is really real, anyway?
i am elected to whatever position my mind randomly adopts,
what it desires more than anything.
but sometimes my mind is villainous,
and i become the antagonist.
i hate the dreams that question my morality.

but the mind fluctuates;
i am everchanging, round and round the clock,
shifting and creaking like the floorboards of an old ship;
the waves scatter pieces of me, never set in place,
currents murmuring a perpetual stream of
who am i? who am i? who am i?
there is so much possibility.

is it my paranoia that stirs these
constant nightmares into existence?
is it fate that i have never woken up,
shaky hands wiping the sweat off my brow,
jolting upward with a yelp of fear?  
why must i experience the finales to these dreams,
morbid scenarios my fragmented memories conjure
to perturb the vulnerability in me?
they never cut short, despite my wishes,
and i wake up feeling utterly wrong.

dreams i want to dream again are rare.
requited love and longing fulfilled,
soft embraces i miss profoundly at the sunrise;
trailing down winding mountains to a wide lake,
one that stretches to another side–
finally, i can touch my periphery,
the fringe of my dreamt-up landscape.

good dreams come sparingly.
a quartz island in the sky; a misty onsen;
scattered people ambling through the humidity.
as i reach an edge with no bottom,
i ask, “should i jump?”
“sure,” my folks answer.
i swallow my fear and leap into the unknown.

and, another dream i strain to recall,
wistful to feel again what is not real,
reveals the gentle, benign curve of an old lover’s lips;
a smile i haven’t seen in centuries.
that is dreaming.