a dream’s gotta say something or it’s not worth the troubleA Poem by Philip GaberI went to a shrink. He
told me I was half crazy. I asked him for a prescription. He thought about it
and gave me one. But when I reached the
pharmacy, I discovered the prescription was written in invisible ink, and I was
s**t out of luck. So I went back to the
shrink, but he had packed his bags and moved to Bali [so said the note on the
door, anyway].
I was furious. I felt
betrayed. Used. Like somebody had bored a hole into me with a hammer drill,
taken my heart out, and started playing dodgeball with it.
I got so angry I bought
a single-shot short-barrel pump gun from Walmart and took it home.
That night, I slept with
my gun, just like I saw those Marines in Full Metal Jacket sleep with theirs.
"Feels good,"
I said as I drifted off to sleep.
I dreamed of some
war-torn country. I saw guerilla fighters marching through the streets. They
said they were from Ebinthia and belonged to the Antarctic Liberation Army.
I asked the leader if I
could bum a cigar from him.
He smiled and said,
"I do not lend my cigars to men like you; I will sell you a cigar for
7,171 wooden nickels…"
I shook my head.
"No, thanks. I can get 'em wholesale from the Ruskies…"
The leader shrugged.
"Have it your way," he said, and he and his men continued marching
toward the Fifty-Nine Years' Battle.
Now the scene shifted to
a bungalow in West Hollywood… there were lemon trees in the back yard… I
imagined one of the family members picking the lemons on the weekend and making
Lemon Delight Pound Cake and Lemon Meringue Pie… I wondered if small children
were living in the bungalow and if their parents had ever encouraged them to
sell fresh-squeezed lemonade to their neighbors…
I imagined all kinds of
idyllic, American scenes there… barbeques, yard sales, family reunions, potluck
dinners …
"…a home like that
must have folk art wall hangings or paintings by Grant Wood and Frederic
Remington and Norman Rockwell adorning the living room walls," I said…
I was about to walk up
the cobblestone pathway leading to the front door when it suddenly swung open.
A little old man with a rotund build and small-featured, delicate face
appeared, pointing a shotgun at me.
"You better
git!" the old man said. “I got nothin’ you want… now git outa here…”
I raised both my hands
above my head in surrender… "I don't want anything from you, sir… I was
admiring your home…"
“Well, git goin’ ‘fore I
call the cops…”
"I was trying to
envision who might live in such a beautiful home… and I love those lemon trees
in your backyard…"
"Keep away from my
lemon trees, or I'll shoot ya…"
"Sir, I didn't mean
to…" I sighed quietly, lowered my hands, and turned to leave… "I was
just admiring your home," I said, walking away.
After that, I dreamed of
being in a shadowy forest surrounded by a wispy fog.
A dark figure approached
me.
"I am Arthur
Rimbaud," said the figure, sipping from a reservoir glass filled with
absinthe … "I understand you are one of the unhappy, fucked up, tortured
people…"
I just stared at the twenty-one-year-old
vagabond.
"You're the only
one in charge of your happiness," said Rimbaud. "You can't depend on
anyone else to make you happy… Paul Verlaine told me that shortly after he was
released from prison… and then," Rimbaud chuckled derisively. "He
converted to Catholicism…so much for his theory… Care for some hashish…?"
I was about to say,
"Is it blonde?" when I heard a phone ringing and my eyes snapped
open. …I hated being woken by
a phone's sound, I thought. Or an alarm clock…, a barking dog… a chirping
bird…, a garbage truck… a leaf blower…, a wood chipper…, or a loud car muffler…
When I finished listing
everything I hated being woken by, the phone stopped ringing, and I drifted
back to sleep.
I dreamed I was being
chased by a woman with a round, bland face. She chased me through forests and
deserts, over hills and across mountain ridges, into valleys, along riversides.
At one point, she
barrelled after me on the streets of San Francisco in a Pontiac LeMans, but she
was no match for my Challenger R/T 440 Magnum. After some awe-inspiring
accelerating and cornering techniques, I was able to lose her near Haight and
Ashbury streets.
The last thing I
remember, I was on 101 North heading toward Napa County and badly wanting to
get drunk on some of that Napa Valley vino… when suddenly I heard that damn
phone ringing again.
I decided to answer it.
It was Dad calling from
the Sunshine Home.
"…I don't
understand it," he said. "This Miley Cyrus… Where's the talent? In
the old days, Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Bing Crosby, and Dean Martin were alone on
stage with a microphone, and it was them singing… These new guys gotta have
costume changes and laser lights and dancing and jumping and acrobats and
strippers and fireworks and JumboTrons… It's phony!"
I'd had this
conversation with my dad at least four thousand times before, and I was too
tired even to play devil's advocate with him, so I just let him vent.
"Those old
crooners, they had personality… they didn't need all these fancy gimmicks to
hide behind, y'understand… Jolson, you talk about an entertainer… Jolson had to
project his voice to the back of the theater; he didn't even have a goddamn
microphone… he did it all with his pipes…but this Miley Cyrus… What's the
attraction? What do people see in her? I guess I just don't understand
it," and he hung up.
Laying my head down and
staring at the ceiling, I thought, I'm in a really peculiar cycle right now.
I was awake but still
asleep. © 2024 Philip Gaber |
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Added on July 11, 2024 Last Updated on July 11, 2024 AuthorPhilip GaberCharlotte, NCAboutI hate writing biographies. I was one of those kids who rode a banana seat bike and watched Saturday morning cartoons and Soul Train. But my mother would never buy any of those sugary cereals for us k.. more..Writing
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