by Bobby Williams

What if I woke whenever to a perfect piano

feet flush along a fluffy rug, rose colored

in a robe

with flowers all around?

 

If you lose your eyelids do you still technically see while sleeping?

 

Sometimes I don’t brush my teeth as much anymore.

I know the precise sound of a bug landing upon the ceiling in an otherwise silent room.

If you wanted to make dead ballerinas useful, you could say that wind chime rhythms recall their pretty, giggling bones dancing into each other.

That’s what a man with a shotgun would say anyway.

I should have known I was fucked when they called this following my dreams.

I’m overcome with tears when I come across children’s artwork.

I’m wearing out all my denims.

I remember when friends used to let me borrow a blast of binaca.

They don’t even make that stuff anymore.

I know I’m meant to die too so I do as few life-risking things as possible.

One good thing about the apocalypse is you’d probably get to see a lot of people running around naked.

Just saw my nephew in such a state.

I’ve been required to dry my knees after peeing.

Your shit’s not that clever.

I’m a self-destructive behavior.

I masturbated once thinking jesus sent weed for my penis as I finished.

I’ll be able to have sex with girls when I’m still high after this.

After I make it.

You can’t imagine still being alive when your friends’ babies start getting married.

But that probably happens.

I like to imagine everything can probably happen.

Except elderly people, all-slumped submitting to freakish tedium.

I can’t imagine that happening.

I imagine, instead, they’ve been wheeling here forever waiting for me.

I’ll be that old person to those babies someday.

 

In certain homes there are cushions on which no one ever sits.

We’ve got to find a better way of defining success.

Or of defining rooms

Or of defining need

Or of defining dreams.

A room for improvements.

That’s my dream.
Peace and Love.

That’s my dream.

And swimming under snow that performs like water

And mountainously tall machines that attack by flinging cars like dodgeballs

And slow-moving tidal waves constantly curling in place

And Richard Lewis drunk on Twisted Tea

And my friend Kevin’s eye spraying blood audibly upon the floor

And pretty girls with crooked teeth

And pretty girls with funny feet

And falling forever

Until I wake up.

 

I wonder whose dream this is.

This massive place can’t all be a venue for…

so much awful…

I wonder when everything changed.

There is one person responsible for that first evil thought.

It spread everywhere and telling by history pretty quickly.  

And look at us now.

Hostile takeovers murder hate and rape.

It’s a fucking nightmare to be awake.

Before bed I obsess over why the world is wicked

and dream of things that make it go away.