Poem from the Open Mic

I had a dream that I woke up, and

in an oversized T-shirt 

jumped out my open window.

He told me the T-shirt was his. I replied:

it doesn't matter cause this dream is mine. 

I took notes at school on black paper, and wrote upside down

from right to left. 

It was exquisite nonsense--

nonsense (as it always was), but made exquisite by honesty 

never before revealed through note-taking. 

I had a dream that I could hum monotones, and you understood their meaning;

so we would hum endlessly, never loosing interest. 

I would tell you that I wrote five pages about

one sentence you spoke. 

That you are my muse, 

my poet, 

my musical genius who composes my monotones into symphonies. 

I had this dream, and we met in the back of a small room-- as storage space.

With complete understanding of what you wanted from me, 

and I from you,

we finally concluded what we wanted from one another.

For an endless moment we found breathless contentment;

literally holding each other's air in our own lungs. 

Holding each other just to let go. 

In this dream, among miscellaneous objects and unconventional lights

we did those things that I now cannot explain because

I am not dreaming when I tell you about this dream-- which I won't, 

but if I did-- you will frown... 

avert your gaze. 

You will not look at me the same way, and 

you will fear giving me the "wrong idea". 

In reality I don't hum monotones. 

I butcher thoughts with language; I extinguish truths with definitions. 

I write closet-essays about something you said once, but you will never know. 

In reality I write notes from left to right (on white paper),

and I read them from top to bottom,

and I take the test one question at a time-- in numerical order.