Bad Want Ad Poetry & Presidential Debate Dreams Cleveland 2016.7.28-29
So many of my dreams are mundane extensions of waking life.
Tonight’s dream was ridiculous but low-key, kind of common. I was wandering the subway tunnels of New York City wearing a cheap brown ill-fitting suit wondering if I should go through with the debate. I’d been accidentally selected as the seventh person in the Presidential debate on television which started in an hour somewhere in the Empire State building. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there, no one knew who I was, didn’t have any Secret Service folk, and was aware there was no way I could win, so just kept walking, thinking, drinking two cups of coffee. Finally decided to go through with it for the message, the chance to stand up there and tell the truth, make jokes at the politicians’ expense. Was bounding up the steps of Grand Central Station to get a third cup of coffee to get my tongue jamming when I woke at 4:08.
The night before, the metal handle of our frying pan suddenly became flexible and the eggs slid out on the floor as I picked it up.
So we went downstairs to a decrepit underground new age beat coffee shop where folk sat around on tattered couches surrounded by low light and lava lamps and read poetry from the want ads in the newspaper.
They handed me a newspaper to read from and I couldn’t get my voice or cadence right and they mocked me. Told them I could do it, but this time I couldn’t decipher half the words, unsuccessfully tried to fake the ones I couldn’t read and they told me I was worthless and dismissed me – and they were right . . . rude and crude, but right.
So not much of a dream, but it is what it is.
