​

 

I wore my lucky shirt to bed

and had saturated dreams

of the roads that parallel my home

just blooming with flowers

under a blue richer than September's.

When the scene changed

to a dim, ornate,

Hall of Mirrors-looking place,

there were five incorrect versions

of my own art piece.

This sparked me lucid.

I looked right

to find my reflection

which, too, was wrong,

the hair was longer.

I felt in conscious control,

but I tilted my chin down,

opened my mouth,

and exhaled darkness

from my esophagus,

meta-cognitively wondering

why this is what I chose

if I was really in control.

It was a confrontation between

myself: evolved, certainly

and now: curious, antsy.

I think the point was

that I had control

over whatever “evil”

I could be.

Or that I'll have an opportunity

to purge it

once my hair grows.

So, the scene switched

back to saturation, back home,

and I experimented.

I crashed my car into another

knowing no one would suffer.

I was lucid

and I told my friends about it

before I woke up.

Ruminating in bed

about why this particular sleep

took more out of me than the

work weekend

was put to rest when I got up

"Oh, the shirt!"

​

“Water Me Down” spelled out

by the roots of two sunflowers.

This lucky shirt that I

wore to bed for the first time

this night.

I got it from a suitcase

of recycled clothes

at a house show in high school.

I’m unsure of the origin

of its magic.

After years of having only

exceptionally great days

in all different kinds of conditions

while wearing it,

it went dormant for

maybe a year before this.

No coincidence.