Sunday, April 22, 2012

Screw leaves of grass, man...

Last night I had one of those dreams. 
The ones that haunt me 
long after I am awake. The one 
where all the Transcendentalist writers 
come back from the dead as zombies, 
roaming the national parks. 
And I’m there, and I’m camping. 
Grilling hotdogs, or something. 
The details probably aren’t important. 
But, something growls, low but faulty
like a broken engine, at the edge 
of the tree line. I look up 
and it’s Zombie Walt Whitman. 
And he’s come to eat my brains. 
So I fight him off 
with a campfire poker 
and a smoke shifter. 

Why a smoke shifter?

1 comment: