in dreams

In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself.

The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose.

The one who gets her point across but in a more colorful way,

who experiences newness for the sake of transcending the old,

beautiful settings that fall from the sky and say to me

"live here, now", and "live away from there"

I see her sometimes, when she writes herself differently

she's clever and bemused and pitiless.

she's an orphan with a great aunt who is

a millionaire who steals her away from poverty-

but that's someone else, it isn't me.



or is it?

John Wayne

two squinting painted eyes
looking solemn on a leathery face.

this knight of the golden age
has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat
atop his slicked-back coif.
what thoughts hide under there?

no matter,
with muscular thighs squeezing the stomach,
of a well-groomed,
well tanned,
Hollywood horse.
with his pink silk shirt,
and his leather vest
and his neckerchief to one side,
and one fist asserting dismay
while grazing the hip-pocket
of his leather pants,

he is a manly figure.