Kafka Dreams

Was it kindergarten, or first, or second? I don't remember.
Michael lived just down the road a few miles from me
Three houses down, I think,
Down a gravel road that's paved now,
Way too far to walk alone.
We were neighbors…and friends.

John was my imaginary friend
Most times I beat him straight up in basketball.
It was my superior passing skills…
Peter Criss dribbles through the double team,
Passes over the zone to Paul,
A quick bounce pass to Gene
Cutting through the lane for a layup,
Ace singing 'Shock Me'…
It never did…to play with shadows.

Upstairs, whole seasons were played and summers passed
Finding a million different ways to put a nerf ball
Through a forgiving Ohio Arts rim…
And me, always, with the play by play.
Scores were kept on the dresser.
Whole seasons were scribbled in crayon…
Eight team leagues, four team divisions…
John and I played in playoffs and championships
Always to sellout crowds.

I never had friends over,
And it was always a big deal to visit anyone,
Even Mary Ann at the end of the lane.
She was the only friend to ever play in my yard.
She was the only friend who, just by walking,
I could find.
And it was a big deal even to visit her.
(Not to mention that she was five years older,
And I had the hugest crush on her…)

So when I went to Michael's house,
It was like going out of town.
Mom drove me there, only once.
There were three of us that day, three good friends.
Is it any wonder I remember it like it was yesterday?…
Baseball cards and dad's magazines,
Hills and pastures behind the barn,
A bull chased us up a tree
(Or so we tried to make everyone believe…
But we did climb a tree),
And we stood with the cattle standing,
Some looking at us with vacant cow looks,
Some drinking from the pond ringed with hoof-trampled mud
And with our footprints round one side
And back through the clefts between the hills
Rising between us and the barn we could barely see.
Mom picked me up and drove me home.

The Robertson twins lived a lot further away than Michael.
Mom drove me to Stephen's birthday party.
Stephen and I were good at everything together,
Except he ran a little faster, and I thought a little harder.
We always had time for those things where we lived,
Room to run, and places to think.

I used to go into the barn and climb into the hayloft
And think about Great Grandpa Tom dying
And if I would, too.

I used to run with twelve puppies at my heels.
Down the hill they followed me, then back up again.
Rolling down, twelve puppies would lick my face…
Like their mother did when she was one of six
And my favorite one…like the one who ran fastest behind
And was the first to lick my face, rolling down.

When Stephen ran faster than I he got a blue ribbon,
And I, mine was red, and I hated that,
Even though red was my favorite color.
But I beat him in the sack race,
And we raced together in the one-legged sack race…
And won. Sometimes I let John win,
But we never won together.

Before John was imaginary,
He was this boy in kindergarten who was a little slow.
Mrs. Maple asked me to help him
To say his letters and add his numbers.
And I did, and he did better when I helped.
One day, he didn't come to school.
The next day Mrs. Maple stood in front of us
And tried to tell us why…
And when I crawled into the hayloft that day,
John was my imaginary friend.
Grandpa Tom was still alive then
To give me fifty cents from his snuffbox
And a Baby Ruth from his drawer.

And Stephanie asked me every day
If I was coming to Stephen's birthday party
After she handed me my 'secret' invitation.
Pigtails and freckles never appealed to me that much.

Then there was the valentine,
Grandma had it above her fridge for the longest time
Cos' "I don't want it, Grandma.
You can keep it if you want."
So she did, and teased me all the time about my girlfriend
Or about Mary Ann.

It's in Alabama now, in a boxful of pictures
With my very first haiku.
On the front, a big red heart, and inside it says,
'Here comes the brid all dressed in whit'.
'Spelling is key, dammit!' Tracy said,
And I have to agree…and no freckles or pigtails.
I always want most what I'll probably never have…
And spelling doesn't really matter when I'm wanting most.

I found a soft piece of rock once, soft like chalk,
Or like her legs…as I imagined them,
As she was taller and a year older.
She was held back a grade, a bad girl I suppose,
And I can't remember her name.
I carved the rock into the shape of a heart
And meant to give it to her.
As time passed, I carved it some more
Until it became a very small heart,
And so brittle it cracked in two.
So then I took another rock and carved a better heart,
A more heart-shaped heart than the first one.
I colored this one red.
I may as well have written, 'Here comes the groom…'
It would have been received the same, I think.

Like everything I've never given,
I never gave her my heart.
Eventually, it broke apart.
A bookful of words never given is thick enough
For me to write upon them now…
And add to the heap.

But when I slept at night I dreamt of her sleeping
Beneath me in the bunk below…
Or like, as dreams can do,
My bunk was somehow beside hers,
And so we looked across the night at each other.
Or like, as dreams can do,
My bunk was somehow her bunk,
And so we kissed each other with night held outside us…

But then the night would come,
And a vampire would carry her away.
So in my dreams I descended the basement stairs
With a stake in my hand and fear in my heart.
I wandered through mazes in darkness
Until I found the vampire and drove a stake through its heart.
Always the hero, I rescued her,
And we would run up the basement stairs together,
Then crawl into bed, kissing.

Sometimes I would rescue her first and the vampire chase us,
Sometimes I died. Sometimes she would fall in love with the vampire.

Outside of school, sitting with her dress over her knees,
I saw her only once.
In a town far from our country home,
The town she must have lived in,
She watched my baseball team practice.
Her dad played catch with her brother while she
Bored and dress-swishing walked
Or head-in-hands-sitting watched.
While I kept glancing,
But never got up the nerve.
And of course that night I dreamed…

Times like tonight, like I might have that night,
I have the Kafka dream…
As in sleep, I climb down from my top bunk
And walk with bare feet across a wood floor
Through the door to my parents' bedroom.
In front of the two of them asleep on their bed,
I walk, still asleep to the stairwell
And slowly descend step by step
Until I find myself at the front door.

Outside I imagine the Indiana sky is limitless and dark
With a weird harvest moon hanging swollen
Over top the broken stalks of corn, which
In the summer sway like the waves of a vast, green ocean
Drenched in sunlight, tipped with golden foam.
My house atop an island hill
From the top of which you could maybe see
Just three others like it as far you could look.
But tonight, if they could be seen at all,
They would be shadows weirdly glowing.

In front of the door I stand and gaze out its window.
Outside it is really daylight and in my yard
Instead of shadows…
In my yard that, outside of Mary Ann,
No one but me (and John) has played in…
All of my friends,
Micheal, Stephen and Stephanie, and Mary-Ann
Are all playing and running and laughing.
They ask me if I want to come out and play,
To play in my own yard,
And Stephanie, pigtails and freckles and all,
Is holding the screen door open for me, smiling.

So I grasp the knob to the front door,
Not just wanting to leave my house full of sleeping people
None of them sleepwalking dreamers
(Except for sis, who shrieked madly one night on the stairs),
But to enter into my sundrenched yard
That waves and dances just like the corn
But with brown pigtails for golden tops.

I turn the knob but it won't open.
My door is locked from the outside,
But instead of opening it, Stephanie looks at me blankly
As I ask her to open the door.
She closes the screen then runs into my yard…
Which isn't mine anymore, it's theirs.
Nothing is mine but lonliness and tears.
Still asleep, eyes crying and open, I turn from the door
And find the couch is where I remember it to always be.
As I climb into the safety of the couch and curl up,
I fall into a different sleep, one without dreams.
Mom wakes to find me there, again,
And wonders if I should see a doctor,
If there are any who can cure a kid of his fears.

Yes, it's times like tonight I have my Kafka dreams,
When I am alone with my thoughts,
When this apartment, it seems, is an island,
And outside my window I see the shadows of other buildings
Weirdly lit by the moon
With the walkers walking past.
Tonight I write upon stacks of wasted sentiments
To add a few more muddled sheets
To the symphony de-composing
Underneath the weight of these words added here.
Hands upon the doorknob I cringe.

6/21/99