It's my first dream poetry-reading
and Kurt Loder is the emcee.
It isn't held in a warm, boho java-shack,
but in the back of a plush, deluxe pool hall.
(I can smell the dream fish-and-chips frying in the kitchen)
Luck is with me: I draw the long straw
and will read last.
Inbetween the other dream readers
I feverishly practice my own dream poem.
I select it because it is short
and starts with the word "Fuck"--
A funny, bitter piece that I hope will
make Kurt's dream mouth twist with wry appreciation.
I am dream sweating through my black leotard top
as I jump up on the red-red-red pool table to read.
My hands shake, so I toss away the dream paper,
reciting instead from memory.
I fuck it up, of course.
I try to go slowly but I panic and stammer
while Kurt watches: implaccable, unreadable.
But the last two lines are delivered with some verve,
and Kurt's eyebrows nudge upwards, in question, as I ask:
"...Revolution in / Cancun?"
Being a dream poem in a dream reading, I have no idea
what it means.
I remember nothing but:
"...Revolution in / Cancun?"
Which, upon waking, delights me as much as
Kurt Loder rolling his eyes.
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