In my dream the white table is pushed up against the lush green.

In my dream I am either breaking into or trying to escape from a relentless comedy convention aboard a cruise ship.

In my dream the creek is black with churning eels, including the prime one that is taller and thicker than me.

In my dream there are zombies outside and debris inside and I get to know the aged pug dog.

In my dream we crowd inside the clubhouse, line up and joke like men who don’t know each other. Bowie is my host to this event where we are each going to do … something that turns out to be tattooing two eager naked initiates. I’m not even a member and have never tattooed, but when the red head shows me their rounded compact body with its brassy body hair and twisting spina bifida scar, I start to think of which marks would honor them.

In my dream the rest of the family goes off to the restaurant but since I didn’t wear shoes or socks I go up to the apartment so I can borrow some of Dad’s. Up there I pull through piles of nick-nacks that I’ve stashed there over the years. More and more time goes by, I can feel the pressure of their anger even in their absence every step I take along the sidewalk is hauling my feet out of the muck and dragging them forward. I never get there, of course.

In my dream LJ sincerely strokes my hand while I cry at the newsstand.

In my dream a tyrant tours the capital of the planet he has just conquered, one filled with art assembled by his curator lover. While his bumbling troops flail along the walkways, I stay calm and try to blend in. It’s all a forced comedy with beefcake.

In my dream I am back there for the first time and forced to deal with the fact that I have never apologized to L. Her anger shakes me and I am close to blubbing in my attempts to be honest and thorough about my failings. The only way to apologize fully is for L to initiate a public humiliation ritual. By the end we are reconciled but the emotional pain wakes me up.

In my dream slots, wandering.