Book of Dreams
My history professor has long golden hair in the seventies,
exchanges it for a gray toupee and one-hundred-fifty pounds.
My gun blanks on the replicants that chase me.
My grandparents die, each on alternate nights,
pass silently on a greasy yellow La-Z-Boy.
My grandmother revives, chases me through the attic,
shakes patent black pumps in her arthritic fists.
I walk onstage on opening night as Character 1.
I know no lines nor into which play I am being swallowed;
the black masses gaze.
My baby brother dies; it is tangentially my fault.
I scream in whispers as I’m stabbed by a communist in his car.
The moon fills with blood, rolls away,
trumpets sound as my knees hit the ground.
Blindness, darkness always consumes.
Run away, run away, lame legs.
Burgundy bloody darkness closes in.