They say the ones you meet in dreams are you. 
All of them—villains, monsters, lost loves, 
gods & heroes—the dreamboats and the sleazes, 
each face you reject in dawn-light mirrors, 
storefront window–glare surprises, 
the bleary glass in the bar loo, 
with its stink of piss and beer. 

Even the landscape, that dreamy outback 
or the plunging cliff face, culls spare bits of self 
reconfigured, sketchy & metaphorical. It’s you, 
regardless. So’s the sometime friend who waves you off 
after the long months of separation. 

(S)he (that’s you-know-who) blames you for everything 
that failed to come out as the runes foretold. This dream 
included, in which you steam with fever, face-to-face  
with those accusatory eyes. 
         
Next it seems you’re standing on the river bank 
whose far shore flies away forever,     faint as wind. 
You, not knowing whether waking might appease, 
while Earth plunges to void beneath your feet. 

Then you’re the abusive brother or sister (dead no more) 
or the sadistic ex-supervisor     who was just following orders.
The bully in the schoolyard, Authority in uniform. 
The cop, the principal, the judge, the lawyer 
whose unlooked-for letter burns your fingers. 

But let’s keep in mind, that winged one is you as well, 
soaring out over the mica sea, wind in your ears; 
you, who stops the fang-fingered shit-mouthed golem 
dead in its drooling tracks, 
just when it was about to deflower Mom.

The Godhead, the Buddha, the looming Entity of Joy, 
is also Numero Uno, Mountain’s rounding-out 
of Earth; largess and lamentation both; 
the golden statue on the shore 
who smiles and winks into your heart. 

The planet’s shift, that gliding, sliding hum. 
You get to keep that one around for good.