A Place to Live, That's All

Last night I dreamt I was living in a large, dimly but warmly lit room with big, worn couches and various other bits of furniture and props that had seem better days. It had the vibe of backstage at a theatre. I looked in a mirror and saw I was a different person, a young man in his twenties with a couple days' growth of dark blonde beard and high, wide cheekbones. In each hand, he or I held a light bulb and one of them was illuminated like I was Uncle Fester.

I put on a black hat and went outside where a crowd was gathered around a woman who was quizzing people about a blurry picture of type-writer text projected on a brick wall. She was looking for one word. I said, "Research!" This was the correct answer. I felt like I'd cheated, though, because I'd seen her give the same presentation to another group. She raised her right leg and spat at the bottom of her bare foot. She offered it to me and I shook it.

X Sonnet 1959

Determined rain was fifty percent ahead.
Of nine, a pair of pins defend the ball.
What bowling storms can say's already said.
And yet parades approach the lightning hall.
With glitter drops, a party bucket tips.
You know the scene was made in velvet gum.
Your dancing shoes will stick on diamond chips.
Your thoughts reverse to power absent Lum.
Another planet brought the stormy girl.
Confused, the storm besought her flying dad.
As warnings came, the dancing lobsters curl.
A hundred years have failed to stop the fad.
A snail and whiting ever need release.
You see, it's violence keeps the ocean's peace.