Dream Serial

by Chris Buchanan
Poetry, 2011

If we’d never left Eden, dreams wouldn’t be
what they are: teasing and muzzy little clips
out of David Lynch films, clumsily halting and cut
as sarcastic parental warnings,
elastic metaphorical taunting from a part
of our minds too dumb or too scared to impart
what it wants to, to us.

They’d be serials. Flashy and marvelous
chunks of adventure, no more ethereal visions,
conjecture, departure, just cliffhangered,
thrilling big-budget six-parters, beginning
on Monday and taking a rest for cartoons,
cheering us up, making us laugh until
in the morning we take a cold bath and complain,
‘Aw, dad. Pirates again! I wanted cowboys this week.’

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