Rain Is Not Red
   

Rain isn’t red
Rain is not red
Rain’s not red
Rain isn’t red
Rain’s not red
Rain is not red
Rain isn’t red
Rain’s not red
Rain is not red
Raining is not red
Raining in red is not red
Rain in red’s not red
Raining’s not rain’s not red
Red Rain’s not raining, it’s red
Red Rain’s Red but not Raining
Red Rain That Rained is not Raining
Red Rain Reddened & Rained Red but not Red
Red’s not Raining, It’s Reddening and Raining upon all Redness
Rain is Red, it’s not Ready, it’s Red, it’s Red, it’s Ready, it’s
Ready for Red

   
C. Way/ SnailCrow.com © 2008

Firefighters of Tetrisburg,
   lay down your hoses and come
burrow with us. 

Hide from fire,
   let it play for a day. 

We'll poke vienna sausages
   up through manholes
and roast them at the feet of
   floods of flames.

   
C. Way/ SnailCrow.com © 2008

This is more than a year old. I found my dream-log notes on this and thought I’d post.

This dream, like many of mine, happened — or was recalled in — disconnected fragments.

Old Dream in Three Parts: Father, Alien Flowers, Mother

I

   Meters hanging down, affixed to
long metal pipes,
surrounding my father’s bed,
a ticking steel curtain; 

   I don’t know
	and am afraid of
what they measure.

II

Now a patch of forest,
and squishy white snow
that’s actually no snow but
living substance:

glad gateway to some alien land,
grasping at my ankles,
sucking at my skin in tickling welcome.

I bend down, look closely:
tiny, pale nibbling flowers
with wild gem eyes.

An old man approaches,
skeptical, eyeing one of them.
Vapor pours from calyx,
makes him sing. 

And there he is, singing. He says:
“I didn’t know it was that easy!”
Overjoyed.
And he just sings his song. 

Magical soft alien flowers
in this bend in the woods. 

I hope no one finds them. 

I hope no one kills them.

III

Mom told me dad shot an alien.

I was so so mad that she never told me,
I was outraged.

I suspected her of lying:
“Then why isn’t it in the news?”

   
C. Way/ SnailCrow.com © 2008