In my dreams
JFK’s autopsy his head
dissected yet his body
convulses pitches forward
from an armless chair and
the caught sunfish I
spray-paint
gold and black and
driving home in a driving rain
that makes driving impossible and
my dead cat
finds a live bird
in the garage —
is that his voice,
his footfall? — and
I am in my grandparents’
home gone now
thirty years.
How to join, now, this day,
the wakened world,
its linear logic, when
I might return
to save the president,
free the fish,
resurrect my cat,
restore my grandparents’ home,
arrive safely at my own,
when I might yet do
so much good in
some other life?
Meditatio Ephemera 
And your words DO “do good in other lives” … prompting me to reflect on my dreams from last night in a different light … intriguing to read this only an hour after lying there trying to connect “forgottens” spilling out of dream sequences … Thanks!
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Thank you, Jazz, for this appreciation and for your kind turn of my words. All these dreams I describe occurred in a single night, leaving me disoriented by my arrival in the waking world — and wondering what I ate to instigate such a wild procession! I DO love the idea that our dream lives may be fully as real as our waking lives, which sometimes certainly feel surreal.
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