Untitled

Dream is the hunter that stalks us along the lamp-ridden
trail of subconscious space.
He knows all others in his clandestine field.
He is not afraid of what howls in the night, because
I am almost certain that he is the one who is howling.

Dream is the gift delivered any time of the day by that creepy
boy or girl you once smiled at.
Inside the garish box slithers the snake
of charmed libido dressed to the nines in subliminal heels.

Dream is the doctor that sutures, dissects, vivisects, pokes, prods
and massages the inner life.
His diagnosis could be promising, or not.
All depends upon the patient, and the condition of the
pulpy psyche.

Dream is the hunter, the gift, the doctor, and I am sure
a bastion of other archetypes.
They all have varying degrees of autonomy, yes, but who is
in charge of them?
Who does the hunter report to?
Surely the creepy gift at the doorsteps masks
the reality of an enigmatic gift that masks the reality
of an even more enigmatic gift (recursive gifting).
Does the doctor have a boss?
In the palaces of archetypes,
how many of those archetypes are pale reflections
of greater patterns of awe?

There is never just one dream, or one persona
that flirts with the singular dream out of some
type of existential boredom.
There are always tons of dreams and tons of personae
stuffed into the vivacious atom of a prismatic imagination.