In my dream I am asleep naked on a couch in a well trafficked room.

In my dream the darkness is full of textures and completion.

In my dream i have to take over working the pedals on the bus from an older woman who still has control of the wheel while we make our way through the streets near the docks. There are several near misses.

In my dream there is one morning coat that we share between us.

In my dream I look over his shoulder and wonder what the heck he is embroidering. It is a gray patch of sky.

In my dream we are crawling over the couches to get back into the house we just escaped from with violence. Around us a new group of young people have been dosed with a psychoactive drug, part of the next experiment. There is no warning them. Last night a young Quentin Crisp had betrayed me to the agency.

In my dream we are about to help. There are ribbons.

In my dream the shelves are crowded, right up to my face. I’m ready to laugh.

In my dream I am delighted to find that the apartment I am subletting has files from a previous tenant: a curator who worked with artists from CalArts in the 70s. I would read through them if the neighbors would stop dropping in.

In my dream the idea for the band is being formed in 1975, so we see a photograph of where  Market street begins to go uphill.

In my dream I am walking behind her.

In my dream I take the escalator up in the mall to get to the laminators, having to brush past the young people, many of whom are posing for wedding photos, their white gowns heavy with sewn on gold ornaments.

In my dream we, the participants in a game seminar, are being driven to a Korean fried chicken restaurant in Queens. Merryl Streep is seated behind me and we joke about finding the right outfits.

In my dream I am flipping through tv channels when I suddenly see it: the episode of the horror anthology that involved the commune of artists and the mysterious jars that take them over and destroy them: I was terrified by it when I was a kid, so much so that I had nightmares about it. I had searched for it in my waking life for years, and now here was evidence that it was real. I could see how my child mind had transformed the cheap sets and lighting. I look for the remote, so that I can bring up the title of the particular episode and write it down but can’t quite get it to work.

In my dream the wall is all I have.

In my dream they are bringing the materials up the stairs to furnish the repainted office. I can’t squeeze past them to go down. The light is flat and florescent.

In my dream the many small dogs she is walking are lined up so comically that I start to call out: “On Dasher, on Prancer, on Donner and Vixen!”

In my dream the first warnings of the earthquake are enough to make us climb on top of the stacked appliances in the big box store and to crowd the checkout aisles, arms full of clutched assortments of stuff. This almost feels like preparation.

In my dream I look through the cover designs while they squash together.

In my dream the room is blood red while we look for the lights.