The following prose poem is based on writing a poem from a dream.  In the early/mid-90s I kept a dream journal. Which is good since I rarely write my dreams down anymore – they’re usually gone by the time I make it out of bed, even the ones that I want to remember and seem to make sense. Poof.

This is actually composed from about 5 dreams from that journal, consecutive nights, and the french fry thing was what made me decide to go ahead and do this.  I have absolutely no memory of any of these dreams other than what I wrote down.  I read the whole journal.  !!!  Fascinating!

To Dream

Standing in line in the lobby where I live, I notice a woman in a wheel chair move beside me.  She is mumbling things I cannot hear then mentions that she is a French fry.  I say, “That’s nice.  Do you like being a French fry?  She nods yes.  Enjoying the conversation, I note, “Being a French fry is good.  Sometimes you need to be quiet like a French fry to know yourself.”  I smile because I know that I like living in a high rise where I can sleep with the balcony doors ajar, listen to the ocean and not worry about rats.  The fat rabbits and chickens are another thing entirely.  I must move them back to the balcony from on the couch every night.  The man in the yellow pea jacket says that doesn’t work for him.  I try to tell him of the woman in the brown ceremonial chair, her name floating in front of me in a language that is hard to read:  Mary Magdalina M.  I see a symbol but it becomes invisible and I did not write it down.  Joyce Brothers refuses to take money from me and says, “you’re doing very well, you’ve come a long way.”  But I cannot enjoy her remark because there is a fire in the walls.  Someone needs to throw  water along the ashes glowing like something alive.