Dreams? Yes dreams. Mostly mine are too disturbing to pass along. I can’t properly embellish the sensible features of them without invoking goblined imagery too obscene and grotesque for most sensible folk to suffer thru. But here’s a dream I had the other night.

I sat in the living room. The walls had been covered with striped felt. Maroon. Then green. And again maroon. Something from the bohemian markets in San Francisco. Two children burst from my abdomen. They were screaming in garbled and synthesized voices. The torn flesh and stretched membranes covered parts of their bald heads. Anger and angst forced them to clench their fists around my dangling interior organs.

All the while I sat. I drank cognac from a large snifter and gently rocked when the fan passed. Really I was enjoying the trumpet music she had brought back from India. The door opened. She had returned. The children shut their eyes and dove back into the gaping wound at my abdomen. The flesh sealed and the scar melted into the remaining portion of my tummy.

In three words or less I would describe the dream: Fucking beautiful.