Dreamscape

by Diane M. Laboda

My dream is stuck

in the dark of night somewhere

between Hell and Helvetica.

My dream surfaces not often

but with the fury of a pit bull

and sits on the bed post, grinning.

My dream fits nowhere, begs ignoring,

never reaching the end of my pen

or the beginning of consciousness.

My dream grinds my bones to thin slivers,

makes a stew of reason

and flambés sense and substance.

My dream begins and ends in the same

moment, creeps across the wall,

leaving smudges of amniotic fluid.

My dream enters its garden, pulls

spices, leaves villainous weeds, sucks

the life out of comfort and chives.

My dream returns to twist

and temper clowns from the murky clouds,

fading faces bemused by the flatulent breeze.