Ode to Untoward Dreams

Have you ever dreamt you had sex with someone

 you aren’t remotely interested in,

like a guy you work with or one of your husband’s friends,

 and then the next time you see him, 

at the xerox machine or a party,

 you’re horribly embarrassed 

and the poor guy has no idea what’s going on

 and neither do you, 

because you hardly ever see your husband’s friend,

 since his wife can’t stand you 

because you are childless, thus selfish,

and your conversation is filled 

with utter drivel, like the sex lives of movie stars

and all your various fears and phobias,

which since she’s a psychologist she should find

at least remotely interesting,

but guess what, she doesn’t,

 and she doesn’t even know what you and her husband 

are doing at night, and the guy at work,

 who could have guessed that he would do 

those kind of things and with such abandon,

 it makes you wonder about his mousey wife 

and what’s going on there, if anything.

 Freud said all dreams are wish fulfillments, 

but sometimes its hard to figure out the exact meaning

of your desire, though in the case 

of your husband’s friend,

maybe you identify with his wife 

because in some ways you hate yourself

as much as she seems to,

though for completely different reasons,

 and the guy at work, 

who knows, it was probably the enchiladas picante

you had for dinner or the four beers, 

and maybe you are drinking too much these days,

 though it rarely seems like enough, 

your spine crawling up your back,

like a rat in a Skinner box, shaking so hard

at times you think you either have epilepsy

or are on the verge of samadhi,

though neither is your dream come true:

 nirvana seems boring 

and epilepsy, well, who needs more problems,

 because when we close our eyes each night,

it’s review time, quel calvaire,

 familiar but hideous, 

despite the sexual release with odd partners,

 and running down a tawdry neon street 

you find yourself aloft, soaring

 over the paltry world, so far away

it suddenly seems lovely,

 like an intricate toy town,

with tiny perfect people doing tiny perfect things,

 but you always plummet to earth, a hard fall

into the amorous arms of the most peculiar people,

 yet everyone has his attractions, 

so when your husband tries to wake you,

 you say, wait, wait, one more fall, one more kiss.

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