If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em

I dreamed I was trapped inside a poem. The walls
were made of rusty, square nails which hung in
mid-air. It was deafly quiet. If I touched a nail, the
rust would fall off, and a brown, choking dust would
hang in the air for hours. I tried not to breathe it in,
I was afraid to scream for help. I saw no means of
escape. I kept thinking of a hammer. That’s what
being trapped inside a poem will do for you. You
have to start thinking like a poem, you have to start
behaving like a poem. You have to become the poem.
Soon I was wearing a suit of nails, and people refused
to touch me, they were afraid to touch me. I felt the
power surge in me. Words were collapsing around
my head like crumpled paper. I was inside the nails now.