Posted: November 6, 2015 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,


By David Allen

The first dream I remember
was a child’s nightmare.
I was four, maybe five,
and I dreamt I somehow
had crawled through an electrical
wall socket and passed through
to a land of bright, vibrant colors
and eerie cartoon characters
who guided me to a lemonade stand.
I awoke before I could drink the Kool-Ade.

Twenty five years later
I studied how to program
And control my dreams and
embarked on a six-month
re-run of key, important,
character-forming events.
I never interfered with the plot,
but instead approached my
dreamself at the end, shook
his hand and thanked him,
saying, “Now I understand.”
I never went back to those dreams
or repeated the experiment.
I preferred to let them run their course.
It was more fun to float over
the local park late at night,
or drive fast on a winding
mountain road, than to relive
the day I quit the job
at the Styrofoam factory.

Today I still dream randomly,
although some themes repeat –
lost cars, great sex, racing
my car on winding mountain roads.
My dreamself knows it’s all a dream,
but it’s interesting to let them play out,
To see where they go.

these dreams are
more interesting
than this waking world.

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