Last night I dreamed:
A drunken old man leaves a party.
Three young friends hold him up by the arms and laugh as
he staggers between them.
They glide into a tunnel.
Suddenly one of his young friends jerks the old man’s arms
down and behind his back.
Another slips a knife into his chest.
The dream slows.
I hover above them.
The knife goes in so slowly I can see the grain of
The young men vanish into a seething spray
The old man falls.
I land by the body and kneel to pull out the knife.
Other men try.
They make bets.
The old man’s body jerks and bleeds as each man tries and
fails to pull out the knife.
A woman named Barbara lands next to me to watch the game.
She turns to me and says: “I love you more than I love meat.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “I should like to be a piece of meat. I should like you to drool and whine as I serve myself.”
She reminds me of a Keane painting; all eyes and demonic possession.
“I can tell why you’re here,” she says. “I can hear your thoughts.”
Rob Goldstein (c) 2015-2017 All Rights Reserved