classical dream: poets blogging poets

last nite i dreamed that i on the net, searching for any references to me. i didn't know what that they looked like but i sensed they would be classical. kind of like o'hara taking a shit, or maybe ashbery, is classical, i kept reminding myself. for some reason, all i could hear during this part of the dream were not the extraneous sounds around me, as usual, but the chorus of ghost town and the spooky keys and horns. so whenever i looked up momentarily from my search all i could hear was 'this town is 'comin like a ghost town, bands don't play here no more too much fightin on the dance floor'. despite this, i kept on eating my box of corinthians.

finally, with extremely swollen feet, i found a reference to me, and it wasn't classical at all. it was rather australian but nevertheless i said to it 'you're me, aren't you?' he looked perplexed as though he wasn't used to people talking to him from the other side of the computer screen. i said 'he' only by convention because i have very poor french and can't tell what sex it was supposed to be, i thought to myself. this seemed odd but deeply and profoundly true. in any case, i ignored it and pressed my reference for the latest news about me. after some time without answering my riddle, i grew tired of waiting and intead of listening to the others waiting in line, as i usually do, i navigated away from the page and quickly found another reference to me. now they seemed to be everywhere.

after this i all i remember are hands in my face, like the hands you see when someone puts their hand on the lens of a camera, but my eyes didn't seem to be harmed at all.