Thomas Pescatore

Dream House

Three survivors, a small house.
why when the time came were they there?
No caskets, containers to drift into dream,
only beds and a kiss, some alien beast,
some good Samaritan hunger terror.
she fell in love with words and the fantasy,
my thoughts—uneasy.
Did they drift away immortal? Were they devoured
in sleep? In dream—
a dark room seen from overhead— single home, prosaic, colorless
square eternity and the end of the world.

*dreamed on the morning of the Rapture May 21, 2011

~

A Drifting No-thing

Had this dream I was climbing down escalators from some raised up perch on the floor D5 which was like a high school tho a college and I had to walk down steps to the bottom floor to get there originally and some girl was bugging me and asking me where I was from and I was looking for a classroom something to do with science that after sitting in bed and thinking about I realize had to be from another dream dreamt years and years ago it was so strange and otherworldly and I back tracked but couldn’t find it or figure out where I had thought of it and I was left coldly wondering in the darkness whether I was forgetting my own life I was not alone with Whit sleeping on my pillow against my face and biting my hands so that the bites retained my sanity or what was left of it

this feeling of déjà vu is eating away at my memory and I can’t place the colors or the desks or the life just the swinging on the rubber rails of the escalator and wondering why the workmen hadn’t sealed the steps off if there were no steps tho I made it down easily they weren’t even mad that I risked my life swinging down 5 stories trying to find the second floor which wasn’t there

a kind of emptiness like life leeched from my bones and some lost speck of love is burnt to nothingness in me and I’ll never be able to find it and bring it back there’s so many pieces missing

I see through my glasses only what the world will be.

~

IN dreams i’m MAD, have VISIONS

Once I wrote it all out, tho
you won’t believe me,
it was splattered on my floor
in rich, vibrant colors and non-colors,
non-existent breaths and streaks of sky,
I stepped around the letters
each morning when I awoke
from heavy sleeps with hair
tangled about my sweaty face,
everything was there, all we wished to say,
it was perfect, beautiful, a world unto itself,
the etching, the care, each curve and straight line
of it a truth much like death unavoidable, each fucking
lettered space unbelievably serene, I’ll tell you
I kept each thought in pristine condition,
never dropped a sandwich crumb,
and it was hard, and it weighed on me
until I forgot
and I scuffed it, until I hated those old gashes and
lovely curls, that truth I’d seen enough of,
I spit on it this morning, in the cool
light with the toilet running,
I wrote your name on the walls.