Category: Dreams

I dreamed I had sex with a two-headed woman. One head was normal; the other was faceless, hairless, blank, like a lightbulb of flesh — or, Lord knows, the head of a penis. The normal head belonged to a former lover. I wanted to ask how long she’d had this second head, but was too embarrassed to admit I’d never noticed it before. I woke up wondering whether I should’ve kissed it. Rain was drumming on the roof.

The next night I’m writing a poem in Spanish, searching my dusty memory for the right word: Is it muro — wall — or pared — wall — or muralla — wall — or barrera — wall — or tapia — wall? La pared, I think. The word must end in a consonant, tongue vibrating against the alveolar ridge. Se prohibe la entrada. “Something there is that doesn’t love…” But those words aren’t in my dream. Solamente el muro y la pared. Words for what refuses communication.

As hard as I pluck the strings, they will not sound. I add a capo, but it only produces a higher-pitched silence. The neighbor’s dog begins to howl. It’s broken, I think. The tree it was made from has taken back its birds. But then I remember the blues, and fetch an empty beer bottle from the recycling bin. As soon as the bottle’s neck hits the strings, they begin to wail. I slide it around, searching for the right three frets. But now I am overcome with a craving for pickles. I don’t even care what vegetables they come from, only that they are pale, crisp and briny and go well with rice. I want to taste the ocean. The bottle, I notice, has a message inside, the size and shape of a fortune cookie fortune. You may already be a winner, it says.

A black dog wanders into the woods at dusk and comes back with a flashlight sideways between her teeth, its halogen bulb casting a bleary beam. What a good dog, I say. Who lost a flashlight? Nobody, says our host, rattling the ice cubes in his drink. The forest is full of lights this time of year. We go back to talking about the situation in the Middle East.

I’ve lost my bus ticket home along with my billfold, which I suspect a pickpocket of having lifted. Nevertheless, I try to retrace my steps — a daunting task. How long have I been here? There’s hardly a house or shop that doesn’t seem familiar inside. I remember even the houses that are no longer there, their contents removed for resale in a junk shop that occupies several floors of a crumbling old hotel. We wander from room to room. Chairs hang high on the wall; a group of antique gramophones are gathered in a corner like musicians practicing their silence.

Back out on the street, I find an old roommate leaning against a car. I had heard he over-dosed in his bathtub after three tours of duty in Iraq. Can I get a ride, I ask. Of course, he says. We’re leaving in half an hour. I notice my wallet on the roof of his car, where I suddenly recall having set it down that morning. It’s been flipped open by the wind or some other thief. All my money and the ticket are still there. But it has other pockets I’ve never known about, like a book with pages omitted from an initial printing. It opens and opens. The thief has been thorough, but what exactly he took, I cannot say. I have a lucid moment and think: this dream is not about me. Mine is only a supporting role. Soon the stars will arrive, flashing their immaculate teeth.