Here's a poem about several dreams.
It's a composite of several dreams
that I have had in the past, and it's called "Dreaming Winter."
And I think these dreams were caused by hunger.
A lot of times when you're really hungry,
you have really strange nightmares.
And I think all the times I dreamed these things,
I was really hungry.
And if I wasn't, I should have been.
Don't ask me if these knives are real.
I could paint a king or show a map the way home.
To go like this.
Wobble me back to a tiger's dream.
A dream of knives and bones, too common to be exposed.
My secrets are ignored.
Here comes the man I love.
His coat is wet and his face is falling like the leaves.
Tobacco stains on his Polish teeth.
I could tell jokes about him.
One up for the man who brags a lot, laughs a little and paints
his face on the nearest knob.
Don't ask me, I know it's only hunger.
I saw that king, the one my sister
knew but was allergic to.
Her face ran, until his eyes became
the white of several winters.
Snow on his bed, told him that the silky tiers
were uniformly mad.
And all the money in the world couldn't bring him
to a tragic end.
Shame or fortune tricked me to his table.
Shattered by one standing lie, with new kinds of fame.
Have mercy on me Lord, really.
If I should die before I wake, take me to that place.
I just heard banging in my ears.
Don't ask me.
Let me join the other kings.
The ones who trade their knives for a sack of keys.
Let me open any door, stand winters still
and drowned in a common dream.