A DEEP MAP FOR DREAMING, after James Tate
While dreaming, we are all at least two people
—Ralph Gibson
To control your double while dreaming,
yank the spigot of the clock wide open.
Swim through the sunken chimney
that meanders under any rollercoaster.
Upon surfacing, your speech will be framed in orange peel.
If not, clasp the silver intestine of an angel
and run until your gills burn.
Close each eye over stones.
Hyperventilate through the turnstile at a tombstone
and count down into coincidence.
Before massaging the slipping gospel,
scratch that itch on your self portrait.
That’s fine. Right. Follow the pattern of animal fur
until you reach a ukulele factory.
Knock on its door and hide.
Do not hide in a wasps’ nest.
Ease down on your stirrups
from out of the wall-length mirror.
Ignore the clown-eating bird.
Open eyes, remove stones.
They are eggs of rattlesnake.
Whisk them. Fry them. Eat them.
When your tongue feels like a plaid sweater,
approach the waiting B-52. Pinch it.
Take a piece of anti-dust chalk from yourself.
Trace the outline of your double.
Repeat, and obey.
