Sunday, November 28, 2010

I was punished with a nightmare from the culinary gods last night because I ate a cream cheese and cranberry sandwich very late. In my dream I was with some weird woman small with dark hair who very much wanted to be my friend. She begged me to go to dinner with her it seemed urgent. I told her I was a vegetarian I made it very clear. We were then in some old part of the city shadowy and dangerous and climbed up a bunch of stairs to a dark night club. We sat at a table and I felt something by my foot. It was a black corrective shoe the kind misshapen with cracked leather and I had to lift it to the table to get my dinner. Once I did that I was brought a drink in a shot glass bourbon I think and I drank it quick then I a oily man brought a platter of what looked like sushi but some of it had orange fringes like sea creatures and some looked vegetable in nature. I ate part of one and it seemed okay. The next course was a cat lying on a bed of rice. It was a black cat looked exactly like Paris the Genius Cat. The chef came out and insisted it was dead because I was stroking him. His one golden eye was open staring at me in pain but he couldn't make any noise. I got up and started a fight with the cashier telling them I was going to report them to the police.


David Grove said...

This reminds me of many of my dreams: an old, stygian part of some city, Kafkaesque corridors and serpentine staircases. I had dreams like that about New Orleans for a few years after visiting it, and I had one dream set in an old, decrepit part of St. Louis after reading a ghost story (by Russell Kirk) set there. I still dream occasionally of walking around the most down-at-heels parts of Flint, MI, my hometown. Place seems to be important in dreams, as it is in poetry.

Maybe you weren't punished. Maybe that sandwich was like peyote: it engendered the prose poem of this dream.

Radish King said...

David, the best part of my day so far was finding your blog. And thank you. Kafkaesque is exactly right. I should have paid attention to the dream city it just might have been New Orleans a town in which I've loved or it might have been the sucking chest wound of a town in which I was born a town that is probably pretty close to Flint in personality--Spokane.

David Grove said...

Spokane? I've never been there, but I used to hear Bob Edwards say Spokane on NPR every morning in the car. If it's cold, snowy, dangerous, and close to the Canadian border, sounds like Flint.

Thank you for checking out my blog. Yours is delightful. I'd like to be as prolific as you.

Lately I keep running into Washington poet blogs: John Olson in Seattle, Laura Jensen in Tacoma, and now you from (but not in?) Spokane. I wouldn't be surprised to find a posthumous blog by Richard Hugo. Someone using a Ouija board to take down his new poems.

Radish King said...

I'm in Seattle now and have been for most of my life. I escaped Spokane.