Call it "Post-Taste"

I dreamed about walking through a field of blue grass, under a red sky adorned with three moons.


There was a busted air raid siren and a sallow faced mother with only one hand clasping the t-shirt collar of a small child wearing kneepads. I woke up with my head resting on a white pleated ottoman, hands underneath, shoulders slouched, as if planted before the guillotine.



I turned around, arms a asleep and painfully tingly, and there, a paper box featuring a picture of a hammock-laced set of palm trees, a display. A man positioned another fake paper television into a white lacquer entertainment center. Then he returned with cardboard computer monitor and places it on a white lacquer desk. He moved about the room placing fake cardboard electronics here and there. He bobbed with agility and swiftness around the corners of coffee tables and armoirs. Then a woman brought me a glass of hot water and inquired as to the nature of my screaming sobs while I slept. And I replied, "I dreamed that I was a Post-Apocalyptic refugee living in an abandonned furniture store and one day I stepped outside and I saw the world and it wasn't like these boxes." She said nothing but patted my head.