The dream is sprawled naked

On cheap bourbon soaked sheets.

Bullet hole to the forehead,

Warm blood oozing

To the flickering beat

Of the third floor neon lady

Outside a cracked window

Where the soft moan

Of a saxophone

Creeps in and out of

Shadowy buildings

And alleyways of wasted lives.

Someone screams nonsense

In the hallway—

There may even be gunshots.

A door slams shut—is it mine?

If the pain is real, why

Haven’t I died yet?

    —

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