Dream ending on a verb by Merridawn Duckler
In my dream, we are rich and shop without price tags. You toss me nice things while strolling the Chanel Boutique. We shop assiduously around a woman lying naked on a raised platform. Waiting for a massage? Or just too rich to even bother with clothes anymore? I struggle into a huge sweater and question its fitness. You say: just fecking buy it! The sales staff follows you like unemployed hound dogs because, even in dreams, retail can smell the real deal. I brood regarding the sweater. The collar is possibly made of fur. Do I wear fur now? Dream fur from dream animals? Once, I, a vegetarian, ate a chicken wing in a dream. So, I’m guessing yes—it’s a fecking dream! I leave in my Hummer (rich car) to a crappy apartment full of people invented on the spot. They are suffering through a dilemma. They don’t have enough money for a graduation party. The master of the house, with a tiny mustache I drew on him, says he will go into debt to make sure these children can have their party. I stand there, sullen, a rich person who doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Meanwhile part of me went outside and looked for the Hummer. It wasn’t really the kind of car I’d buy, even if I had Plenty of Cash. The subconscious has terrible taste. I open my eyes and see you are right. A giant sweater, dragging behind me like an enormous caterpillar body, pre-chrysalis could change my life.
Merridawn Duckler is the author of Interstate, a chapbook forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press. Also, she is just now literally wrote a poem about dancing girls.