It won’t get your picture in any widely-read records books,
but it’ll get your name in at least the local newspapers.
It’ll be longer than you think a nap should, but eternity, eh,
that’s a little purple prosy. You’ll dream more than that
half-awake-maybe-you-got-a-phone-call-maybe-you-didn’t
dream that the afternoon nap offers. You’ll dream of oceans
where you breathe without the hideous addition of gills,
where fish swim around without eyes, except for sharks
and certain fish that you’ll endow with magnificent eyes
or eyes that form entire bodies or maybe even a single eye
with wings and a blowhole. There will be chaos, but nobody
will consider calling it chaos unless you like the word “chaos.”
With everything water, people and things will waft and wane
out of sight until you’re ready for them—that’s when you throw
your underwater batarangs with wires hooked to your utility belt.
You’ve always wanted to have one, so you will have one.
Your ex-girlfriends will write you long love letters with words
you’ve always admired but never found proper places for,
like lugubrious, nefarious, prescient, pert, and verisimilitude.
They’ll be in dry-air cages, break-dancing for your affection.
The kid who played Benny and the kid who threw “the heater”
in The Sandlot will be next to you, as will Joseph Gordon-Levitt,
as he was in Angels in the Outfield, telling you that you’re “awesome”.
Ya-Ya and Squints will be in the cages, dancing with the girls,
An angel-winged Christopher Lloyd, plus that annoying kid
who thought that a crescent moon was God’s thumbnail—dumbass.
They’ll think cage-life is equally as “awesome,” but they’ll be mistaken
because Christopher Lloyd—driving a DeLorean—will cruise by
with Michael J. Fox—without Parkinson’s—and yell to you, “grab on”
just as you see four wires fly by. You’ll tell the boys not to worry
because “hoverboards are obviously attached to these four wires.”
You’ll be your invincible eighteen-year-old self, without the acne,
so they’ll look up to you. They’ll respect you. Everyone will,
especially as you hoverboard wherever the past and future exist
on a dream-timeline, because you’ll be king of both of them.
You’ll make the migration—and the distinction—for the architecture
and the instantaneousness of it all. As the once and future king of it all,
you will kiss the babies of random couples. You will do this because
snapping your finger mutates—although you’ll use less disgusting
verbage—any baby into Baby Spice, and she’ll say, You’re very sexy.
You’ll say, No thank you, miss, I’ve got a wife. You’ll have many,
yet another glorious perk of Doc’s DeLorean—albeit unnecessary,
Your Highness—and when you get home at the end of the doak—
your unquestioned, all-encompassing time-unit—to a giant snail-shell,
painted to look like Charlie Brown’s T-shirt, you’ll unhook
your utility belt and tell the kids from your favorite baseball movies
to swim along to the tavern that serves nothing but forest-green scotch.
You’ll give the one that throws “the heater” a one-on-one pep-talk
because he’s the youngest, and then you’ll lend him your utility belt.
You’ll have unprotected sex with your “present-day” wife,
who has auburn hair that knows no stylistic limits, much like her art,
of which there will be a new piece every doak, on the doak,
unless you’re home. When you’re home, you’ll engage in unprotected
sex, singing classic songs—your “present-day” wife will sing
like an angel, the only cliché allowed in your vast kingdom.
You’ll call it unprotected sex as often as you like, because the stigma
Will not be there. You’ll do this for a few doaks and then explore
your kingdom some more, but on this fateful doak, you’ll fall asleep
for the first time. You’ll wake up crying, unaware of this fact for years,
until you hear it from your parents or see something similar in a movie.