I had a heavy load of asparagus stalks but normally I can fly with an asparagus stalk poked through my left wing. It was a silver wing. My hand is on upside-down, too. It is poorly hinged and I get it stuck in cement all over the wall. I have a very boxy little ghost in a wine decanter. I am a very boxy little ghost in a wine decanter. Someone put the cork in and squashed my tongue. I hung by my tongue, flailing. My tongue was squashed but still boxy.

Before you can come into my house there is a stand upon which is a knife and three pounds of butter -- smear your hands with butter, then you can come in the rest of the way. Every banister in my home is white and all the tiles are mouths, they open only to me, but have no teeth. In my bedroom are two children-balloons, my babies, little girls, with long hair, one red, one yellow. They stay together because one has her tongue in the other's mouth, forever.

The outside of my building is like those tomato pin-cushions, only they are upside down when you're on a vertical side. There are support pins. You can walk into them, either you or the tomato. And there is a door that I keep locked because I'm tired. It's a red and pink striped door. I sell home-grown volcanoes. They are reflective. You could keep them in your backyard without anybody seeing them.

I keep a one eyed integer in my yard. She's got high-heeled shoes. She was a sturgeon surgeon. I wore a purple wicker dress. Chicken legs hung out the front pockets. I was rocked to sleep in this every night of my life, and also in a banana, like a banana, with the peel around me, warming me. As I count sheep I look at the orange quilted ceiling with little watches stitched into it. Everyone looks at my ceiling continually, with their heads bent upwards, though they are really shopping carts, looking for things to wear.

Downstairs I keep a painted blue Airstream trailer that no one knows is magnetic. Everything sticks to it: silver flasks and hand-razors, tiny pocket mirrors.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Most dreams in Dream Scene Magazine are surreal, but even in that Dada crowd, this stood out--not just an example, but the essence of that strange zine. Its artifice doesn't mean it's not a real dream; I've had ones this disjointedly surreal, just not often enough to convince me surrealism's the apex of dreaming, or its goal.

--Chris Wayan

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