And Now For Something Completely Different

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This is Not Fun

This recurrent dream
Keeps playing again
And again
A peek-a-boo
Déjà view
About a part
Of life’s past
Particulars
That I wish had not been
A part of mine.

Particularly when they keep
Coming and going
And calling at Will
E. Nilly’s own proscribed time.
This can make a long sleep
Not worth
being had
And ruin completely
A short nap,
Cats or know.

There is always a holy
Of some grail of sorts
Or
A grail of some holy sort
Needing to be sought after,
Cleansed, found, rehabbed, delivered
Or
Retrieved
Or
Just plain nabbed, grabbed quickly
For
Redemption or salvation
Or
Kept from immolation, ordination
Interpretation, induction or inauguration.

But in the end
There is never resolution
Or
Absolution and I wake
Tired and confused.
Perhaps proseletyzed.

Always there is somewhere
Where I must get to
To pick up
Or
Deliver what I do not
Know as gospel
Or have as any
Tangible evidence of the quest
In question,
Any glimpse of what
I am in search of
(get your own damn preposition;
This one is mine).

After an Order has been given,
In the name of my father
The Sun or some Holy
Grail ghost sonuvabitch
Who talked me into
This,.
I then find to run
My errant errands
That there are always
Two cars,
One mine, the other
Something other than mine.
I leave the one
And take the other
Only to misplace it,
Myself and my way
Along the way
Along with all the keys
To both.
(If you have never been stranded
In a dream, I don’t recommend it.)


I have learned
That these are the keys
To my kingdom
But they always land
On a dirty floor
before
They open
Any door.

On one trip I drove an Audi
That had been fitted
For James Bond
And the scenery I passed
Exploded all along the way.
The last was black Saab
Turbo, of course
Another spirit-packed
Power-horse that got
Misplaced like the others,
In a sub-terranean dungeon

Which was really
A garage with many exits,
All of them
Old wooden doors
With writs tacked on them
That none of the keys
would open,
And then I then remember
That the view would be
Made fine all over
Again
If I could make my way
Back
To the other car-
The one less flashy-
That I’d left
Full of books
That I’d not read
Yet
Back
In the university parking lot.

But I can’t
And I’ve just dropped
The keys
To the menacingly black turbo
Down a drain grate
In the garage dungeon floor
And
It is cold and damp
In here
Where
I am all alone
And
I hate cars now
And
Unread books.

Every time I dream
This dream I learn
Again
I have learned so little.

Then this voice says
“Just shut up and give me
The fucking keys.
This time I’ll drive.”