© by Bob Rixon
A shape assumed by an impossible word,
paralyzed fist, wet paper towel,
clump of library paste, twisted thing
hobbling up a long staircase.
Lungs collecting old newspaper dust,
pressed flowers shifting from page to page
while galaxies dissolve in saliva.
Two gaunt men visit in a dream
constructed from the stuff of childhood.
They sit on the porch in wicker chairs
like family friends or Mormon missionaries.
An afternoon thunderstorm approaches.
A question to them, “Who are you?”
changes the humid air to gasoline,
one man stands up, his face
contorted with madness,
gibberish bursts from his lips
with bluish flashes of lightning.
The dream ends when a drowning boy
slowly climbing through layers of water
breaks the surface, gasping for breath.
If The Fool is unable to recite
a tale of parasites feeding upon gold,
his tongue is severed before he is thrown
headfirst into a deep well.
By this example the stutterer is taught
to remember his own dreams.