I invited all my daydreams for dinner,
and tried to gather them around the table,
but they all are whimsy and free love dancing.
We form a conga line and shimmy out
conversations around the table.
My daydreams know how to spin stories
and show me how they can pull clouds
out of plates and sun from glasses of lemonade.
They line up the forks into mouths with fanged teeth
and the spoons form tongues, and my daydreams
show me nightmares in the mundane.
They clot up the open space with table clothes
and the chairs circle around me
to form the perfect cage.
My daydreams turn inside out
into flash bulb red and boarded up windows.
Their laughter sparks and bursts
into ghosts howling at my ears,
and I try to hide
below the table, beneath the bed
behind my closed mouth.
My daydreams warn me about flimsy outlines
and I wake up.
Poetic Trials 