wake up, bismarck.

i need to speak.

i dreamed of a red, red car that toppled and turned and rolled and toppled.

from a distance it seemed so small.

it rolled and rolled over hills and dales,

the sun kept shining. at last it came to rest

in the hospital corridor, quite still,

next to the pulpit. i smelled the essence

of my grandmother there,

her cool dim house with smells of fabrics of sun

and the snipclicksnipclick of cutting smoothly

on the oval table, a hollow pleasant sound

of wood chimes and scissors...

wood chimes...

but i stray -

the coffin red right at the foot of the pulpit contained my torso

and my hair drawn on my head in brown wax crayon.

and the coffin,

the coffin lined in white enamel is so smooth,

it looks like a brand new lamborghini;

its lid to be lifted like that of a cooking pot -

what does this mean, bismarck?

how could a car become a pot, even in a dream?

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