I used to dream vividly almost every night but now that I'm writing, it's only occasionally. I guess my imagination gets enough exercise when I'm awake. But every once in a while, a real doozy shows up -- like this one, which I turned into a kind of poem.
They lead me down the white glare of beach
To a low chair where an ancient gnome sits in the sun.
I kneel before him in the burning sand,
Struggling to fit transparent green plastic sandals
Onto his soft pink feet.
That's Nietzche, someone tells me,
You got to watch him for he's bad to shoplift.
If there's a "deeper meaning" to this little slice of surrealism, I don't want to know about it.
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