Justin Wade Thompson
Originally published in The Evergreen Review Issue 123 in June, 2010.
a bad dream
and woke up next
and a bag of half eaten potato chips.
some kids never grow up,
put ketchup on their steaks, but that’s
a whole other story isn’t it?
but bad dreams chase
like a battle-scarred cat
in the alleys of the brain
sometimes falling off bridges
and other times
until your eyes become like the ends of ice picks
trying to stab your father because he
killed a cockroach with his shoe.
i used to collect
my mother’s old Victoria secret catalogs
and cut out pictures of rock stars
to tape on my bedroom door
i’m just living like BLACK, living like a Kara Walker,
with nothing but shadows in my heart
and maybe there’s something
to be said for it.
crochet colors should be left to flood waters
and mud castles
after a hurricane (or the idea of a hurricane).
maybe bad dreams are just beds made of spider silk
and raw horse feathers.
my river bottoms are all empty and my steaks are cold
the morning dew is
like a salty pussy smell
running up my nose hairs
to a place so dark
that no one
can ever see
and no one can ever dream.