Dream Song 2.79/2 by N. Barry Carver (have you read this book txt) 📕

A dream is like a glimpse of madness. If only this were a dream.

Powdered sugar falls from the top of the frame across a front lawn of walnut-filled brownies.

And she invites me down.

The plastic grass of Easters past twines between our tangled legs... cutting tiny ridges–from which transparent spiders may escape. But they do not–not yet.

The church bell tolls X amount of times to signal the start of another race. Dolphins scurry, on freshly sprouted legs, to attack those newly made masters of closed captioning. Thick, yellow jelly oozes along the phone lines, as we perceive the ghost of Regis proclaim that our final answer is just... unacceptable.

Into this garden passes a solitary gas. After all the gas is passed, then come the potatoes and, finally, the gravy. The wavering, gelatinous, ambergris goo coalesces–in the form of a winged giraffe–with a flowing red moustache in just the right shade to match its piercing green eyes.

Upon closer inspection, and with an added frame of reference librarian, it is simply a high-backed chair on which a button down scarf is resting... uncomfortably. We make love furiously–but to no avail–not a bit of love ends up being created.

Gun toting morons drool their way through the oval office for eight long years and are then greeted warmly by a slightly out of phase chameleon. An aging Supreme Court Judge gives them a wink, and they all polka ‘til dawn of the previous day.

What are you reading?

Words, words, words.

Strange, the power of black marks on the white page, no? Consider the hand that made them: designed for other tasks, and one of them far favored over the other... but here, under the glow of a simple desk lamp, late at night, using the least musical keyboard, they portray the flickering of a human soul.

Unsalvageable perhaps–but not for lack of words.

In the roiling abyss of my mental chemistry, my uniqueness is no more than one molecule bent slightly more (or less) to the left (or right) than the exact same combination your brain enjoys. That miniscule quirk makes all the difference in whether or not I’ll eat beets or really enjoy diet Dr. Pepper. It determines whether I can see the green “3” in a circle of cyan colored dots and just how much tragedy I can endure before my tears will no longer flow.

My own defects allow me to cast a shadow in the shape of my heart in most media. Evolution, I am proving, is simply the continuance of the least detrimental defects. The finches of the Galápagos, transplanted too quickly, would perish in other environs. How long, I wonder, until we have become so adapted to the Frigidaire that we can no longer stomach apples directly from the tree.

When we cannot eat the apples... can we then return to Eden?

Odd, this connection I exploit between my fingers and your mind. Never since virginity has a simple touch played such a role and maybe that’s the attraction. If I type a line of random characters while thinking a specific thought... will you be able to divine it?

irepom wOije fgep w en

No, I suppose not. And, I guess that’s just as well, some things may be just for me to tell myself.

The cuts from the cellophane are healing, and the powdered sugar’s deep enough to make snow angels... so I’ll just play on until calamine wing-nut plunders dltäkg.

Now go out and enjoy your own defects.

I’ll be here when I get back.

Text: © 2012 Barry Carver
Publication Date: 02-25-2012

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