I wore my lucky shirt to bed
and had saturated dreams
of the roads that parallel my home
just blooming with flowers
under a blue richer than September's.
When the scene changed
to a dim, ornate,
Hall of Mirrors-looking place,
there were five incorrect versions
of my own art piece.
This sparked me lucid.
I looked right
to find my reflection
which, too, was wrong,
the hair was longer.
I felt in conscious control,
but I tilted my chin down,
opened my mouth,
and exhaled darkness
from my esophagus,
meta-cognitively wondering
why this is what I chose
if I was really in control.
fish added by me.
It was a confrontation between
myself: evolved, certainly
and now: curious, antsy.
I think the point was
that I had control
over whatever “evil”
I could be.
Or that I'll have an opportunity
to purge it
once my hair grows.
So, the scene switched
back to saturation, back home,
and I experimented.
I crashed my car into another
knowing no one would suffer.
I was lucid
and I told my friends about it
before I woke up.
Ruminating in bed
about why this particular sleep
took more out of me than the
work weekend
was put to rest when I got up
"Oh, the shirt!"
“Water Me Down” spelled out
by the roots of two sunflowers.
This lucky shirt that I
wore to bed for the first time
this night.
I got it from a suitcase
of recycled clothes
at a house show in high school.
I’m unsure of the origin
of its magic.
After years of having only
exceptionally great days
in all different kinds of conditions
while wearing it,
it went dormant for
maybe a year before this.
No coincidence.