Hiding in a Dream

I’m running down a tunnel and everything is black.

Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.

Slipping on the scales of a railroad track.

Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.

Trying to find my way, but the fog is thick.

Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Cannot get my footing, ‘cuz the ground is slick.

Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.

Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.

Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

I hear a breathy noise, like a wheezing yak.

Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.

Can’t see him in the fog, but he’s about to attack.

Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.

Feeling on the ground, I find a half-eaten stick.

Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Spinning round and round until it makes me sick.

Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.

Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.

Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

Noises up ahead, so I try to backtrack.

Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.

Fiendish in the fog, so I give it a whack!

Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.

A swing and a miss, but then something grabs me quick.

Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

My arm is in a vice, so I give it a kick.

Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.

Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.

Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

Now he’s tied me up and stuck me in a sack.

Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.

I can hear the train.  I’m gonna have a heart attack.

Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.

If you die in your dreams, do you die in real life?

Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

I see the light through the burlap and …

Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Hiding in a dream, now there’s no tomorrow.

Lost in my brain where no one can follow.

Hiding in a dream, now there’s no tomorrow.

Lost in my brain where no one can follow.

The Old Racist Cat

And now I will tell you about an old, racist cat.

He’s brittle.  He’s boney. But somehow still fat.

His faded orange fur hangs off him like the rug

Of a windy, wet, bald guy I once knew, named Doug.

Patchy and petulant, Hutch is his name.

No one’s quite sure from whence he did came.

But Hutch?  He just don’t like the tone of your skin.

If you’ll spare me a minute, his tale I’ll begin.

It started with the Irish, the gingers next door.

He’ll spend all his years trying to settle that score.

On a bright, pleasant day Hutch had found a sun beam.

On top of a wall, where he could lie and daydream.

Until Sally O’Toole a dim shadow did cast.

She had stopped there to pet him.  But he hadn’t asked.

So now he knew that they could not coexist.

Yes, since that dark day, that pussy’s been pissed

Speaking of pee, that’s his favorite weapon.

He’ll watch and then wizz in a spot that you’ll step in.

Especially when someone’s skin color’s brown.

He’s been marking turf up all over the town.

At Javier’s house, and then on to Juan.

Camila was next, and then Esteban.

Of course this all started with an act so unfair.

Carla had two burritos.  That she wouldn’t share!

One time there came just the cutest young troop

Of girl scouts with cookies here onto my stoop.

Hutch went out to greet them and thought they were splendid.

‘Til one started sneezing and Hutch was offended.

That Indian girl did not see it coming.

As she made her deliveries, the war drums were drumming.

All of her customers found something askew.

Not boxes of cookies, but boxes of poo.

Despite those dull eyes that no longer see faces.

He can spot a Samoan from five hundred paces.

And that nose that turns up at all kinds of chow.

It seems to smell Arabs.  I’m not sure quite how.

He can catch a Scottish brogue from a mile or so away.

Yet doesn’t hear me call him at the end of the day.

He’s got a sixth sense for when gypsies are near.

But they’ve got it too, so they all steer clear.

Now if your name happens to be Rebecca Soo.

Then you can be sure that this old cat hates you.

And really most anyone of the Asian persuasion.

‘Cuz for him it’s a fairly simple equation.

Rebecca once stepped on his tail at a brunch.

Then while eating her eggs she heard a slight crunch.

It seems that the tabby thought her meal was quite dull.

So he added a skeleton and a little mouse skull.

That Dutch girl Anouk once vacuumed too near.

So Cheeseheads were added to the list in that year.

According to Hutch, Anouk looks like a cow.

He declines to say Meee and gives only Owww.

Italians he’ll snub.  No, he’ll not say not a word.

But later on their doorstep they’ll find a dead bird.

He’s seen The Godfather about seventeen times.

And he likes the symbolism of horse-head-y crimes.

Bananas and Frogs, Cabbage eater and Limey.

Hillbillies and Half-Breeds, plus folks who are whiny.

White Trash and Taffies and Gringos, oh my!

These are just some of those he would decry.

He hisses at Haitians and growls at Jews.

Louder and louder and louder he mews!

Scratching and clawing at legs like cat posts.

And then there’s black people.  He hates them the most.

Three things I can tell you about Hutch with his foe.

Sometimes he’ll go fast and sometimes he’ll go slow.

And sometimes he waits and plays the long game.

So’s a lonely Kenyan man won’t know why he came.

He’ll eat that man’s food.  Keep him company, too.

Snuggle up on the couch when he seems to feel blue.

And then disappear for three days at a time.

Which worries the man.  Yes, that is his crime.

So that is the cat.  His tale has been told.

I know he’s a monster, but he’s also quite old.

He’s set in his ways.  He cannot be taught

To change his opinions, to be what he’s not.

Yet I’ve grown rather fond of the biased old coot.

And he seems to tolerate me now, to boot.

Now how can that be, my skin black as anyone’s?

Well …

I suppose that he thinks that I’m one of the good ones.

Circle

I’m in a mood.  I’m in a stall.

Can’t hardly see beyond the fall.

The films that play within my mind.

I may not see, but I’m not blind.

I want to feel that something more.

Knocking, mocking at my door.

I crave the kiss, the kiss of death.

But also life!  But also breath!

So, soon I’ll pray and I’ll repent.

Dissent.  Descent.  Relent.  Ascent.

Circle the circle.  Round and round.

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

Leaning Into You

Leaning into you

Stupid me, I trip and fall.

Did I do it on purpose?  Or just drop the ball?

You lift my head.

You lift my head.

My state of sorry is status quo.

Again and again, ‘cuz where else can I go?

Away from you?

Away from you?

Please stir up your spirit in me.

Banish the demons, Lord, hear my plea.

And lift my head.

And lift my head.

And now the peace I understand.

Release my stuff.  I open my hand.

And lean into you.

Lean into you.

Saturday in Venice

Saturday in Venice

Sun bouncing over the net and a beach ball in the sky.

Homeless in bikinis and hot girls getting high.

Saturday in Venice, so much to see and do.

Saturday in Venice, such fun for me and you.

Muscle builders singing songs, musicians flexing quads.

Eating sushi as we surf. Now what are the odds?

Saturday in Venice with sunscreen on my toes.

Saturday in Venice with sand between my nose.

Swimming down the boardwalk, walking in the blue.

Buying knockoff jewelry from a sentient Gnu.

Saturday in Venice and things are getting weird.

But Saturday in Venice is why I volunteered.

Roasting some brewski and drinking down s’more.

The fire’s burning cold, but the sand’s turning warm.

Saturday on Earth 19 and everything’s wrong. Or is it?

Now it’s back to my Earth, but I’ll be back to visit.