August 4, midnight

It's almost midnight, close enough
to the time
when the things begin to howl
not like sated gorillas, no, more like
barbequed banshees
who can't fit into their slippers.
More like.

And to recall all of yesterday's dreams:
Miles, you were not 34 but the 17-year-old-
dressed-like-a-Hassid-boy lying on the dock by the pay phone
my stepmother wanted to go ask you "how you did it;"
even if the Israeli CIA wasn't impressed, she was
- so wonderful if I could fin the "man" of my dreams here
among sailors, Dad seemed to imply; this is probably only
one of those ENFP false negative perception-implications, though -
And then the one about the limes & pterodactyls, the peas
and the whales going into them, turning I mean.
Dinosaurs addicted to thighmasters, & chocolate, sweatless
shampoo in the days before tapioca & sweat.
tell a made-up story every day. No true true ones allowed.
I can't remember the band name.