selections from the dream catalogue

nance klehm


a vampire appears at the bed's foot. words slide from frothing lips. a threat. my open mouth screams silence.


in a football helmet running a mission through a looted urban frontier. garbage cans burst into flames. wayward vehicles careen into brick walls of factories. only four hours to distribute bread.


a cloud of sawdust hides the bronze tree; a weird stylized palm that The Fat Girl made. i lift it onto my back, laughing. little squiggles of metal hang off the trunk, dangling in my face. The Fat Girl says that they represent birds. birds are the communicators between Earth and Sky.


ancient woman of the crows, grey hair long like it grew from the cabin's floor planks, issues a warning: 'the blonde one, he will come again.'


i give them chocolate cake. children are crying. several hundred are evacuated. others lay on cots or on mattresses in the roadway looking up at a bright moon rivaled by stars. a few sleep.


in lake michigan a lacy network of buoyant folks in trunks and bathing caps floating on their bellies. linked together. a social project - like 'hands across america', but in the lake, tracing the shoreline. thousands of arms, legs, torsos spread wide reading like asterixes from above. i swim up to a grinning ruddy-faced irishman and link up to him.