Dream Weaver 3.6


My friend Kristoph wrote to me about a dream.

This time you (former lead singer from our old band) were rocking a short yellow dress with these little fringes that reminded me of Texas, leather, Mexico, and Vegas. Don’t know why. The room was big. It was a party. The walls were the color of ice cream cake, confetti and all. Looooooooong stage. You were alone with the mic and lights dancing on a platform. The other one had Jimmy and Chris blowing horns and Mike playing a cocktail kit with no sticks. He was smiling and waggling his fingers though. Everyone looked happy. Geppi could be felt, but I couldn’t see him. Carl too a bit, weird. Songs were really upbeat and people were excited. There was a pool and people were swimming even though it was winter outside. Champagne. Guitars. Goddess.

What a beautiful dream!

I’ve never been a lead singer. I’ve never worn a dress. These are beautiful ideas though.

The truth is, I’m disgusted by my own maleness. I’d like to think anyone that took a hard look at what their maleness means, what it implies, would feel the same way. Of course I’m wrong. But having so intimately acquainted myself with what makes me male, having injected drugs 100 times the strength of testosterone, the normative male hormone, having distorted my mind and body toward the ultra-male, I feel okay with considering myself a bit of an expert in maleness. And it disgusts me. Of course there are shades of this, and I’ve experienced most of them.

I don’t want to be an animal.

I don’t want to have a body.

I feel trapped.

I’m dreaming of the post flesh world.

The truth is I’m not that great at partying.

The truth is I am, but only in a Randy Newman sense.


You know, you know I just can’t stand myself

 It takes a whole lot of medicine

 For me to pretend that I’m somebody else


I’m good at taking medicine.

Still it’s hard for me to party.

It’s hard for me to forget what’s going on here.

Before I get out of bed I have to forget 100 things.

Before I drop my kids of at school I have to forget 100 more.

By the time I face my coworkers I will have forgotten one thousand.

All of this an attempt to forget myself.

To enter the dream.

And all of this feels like walking through a valley of lies.

I keep learning techniques to help me see past.

To work through disappointment.

To release my anger.

The more I release, the less of me I feel. This is good.

I could be wrong.

About Adam Tedesco

Adam Tedesco is a founding editor of REALITY BEACH, a journal of new poetics. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Laurel Review, Gramma Weekly, Prelude, Pouch Powderkeg, Fanzine, Fence, and elsewhere. He is the author of several chapbooks, most recently HEART SUTRA, and ABLAZA (Lithic Press), and the forthcoming collection Mary Oliver (Lithic Press, 2019). View all posts by Adam Tedesco

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