Night Mares

The dreams we dream, we edit.
This poem I verse, I dreamt last night,
a dream of rampage spilling over,
the blood throbbing in my throat,
its scent indelible in nostril linings.

There came to me a wench, not seen in years.
Pregnant she came, proclaiming I fathered
the 13 year old fetus, she carries
Tomfoolery, even in dreams that is implausible.

She wails and pleads that I believe her,
argues her cause alternately as if it is before a jury.
Says its high time we wed, that I should step up to the plate.
Seems I heard that line before.

I don't know how in all these soap suds,
my best friend, Ralphy gets in the mix.
I haven't seen him in years, either.
Nevertheless, he too is getting on my case.

It occurs to me that Ralphy and Sophie
may have carnal knowledge of each other,
and are in cahoots to have me pay the tab.
I'm annoyed, can you blame me?

Words escalate to blows.
It should be a cinch for me to floor Ralphy,
except, that in the years I haven't seen him,
he's gotten an advanced degree in voodoo and kickboxing.

The New Yorican has me looking as if I've had a session
with 15 pit bulls, unleashed to bring me to repentance.
But what I lack in fighting skills
I makeup for by being 7th born,

So, I nail my best friend
with a knee to his sperm bank
and apply to his windpipe
a Vulcan thumb.

It's then that I awoke to a happy ending,
and pray to God that Ralph did to,
for who knows if what dreams may come
might be ascribed merely to indigestion.