After A Pleasantly Cruel Dream Poem by John Parsons

I arise out of my bed
Like zombie out of his grave
In a stupor. A blind stupor.

Reality is death-chamberishly cruel
It seems to be dressed in a turban and
A goat-skin shirt and wool trousers. It appears

Mythical. Hysterically and happily mythical.
But underneath all the mystical and hopeful
Garb of centuries gone to smoke

Is a business suit.
A business suit.
A lassiez-fare business suit.

Fat-cat,
With a tie, light brown
Like rope, like a noose.

That loves to strangle
All your hopes and dreams away
Make them into a ghost.

An Ocean Avenue ghost
That locks you in
To chase you away.

Far away, like to
Arabia, Arabia, before the time
Of Mohemmed. It is Pagan. Wickedly and delusionary

Pagan.
With a peaceful oasis
And some food, I could escape demonic Reality.

Lord of Arabia,
Hear my cry, my scream-
Hear my plea.

Let me migrate
To the coast. The deserted coast
Free, free, ever so free

From Reality.
You may attach as many strings as you wish.
Just let me in, in, in.

(12 June 2008)
(Hurst, Texas)