Dangerous Dimentia

There are holes torn in the fabric of reality,
Where the holes are things appear:
A growling creature in the mailbox,
A screech owl sitting on the breakfast table,
When he went to harvest the honey
There were worms and moths instead of bees
Causing him to drop his honey tools and run away,
A phantom jet overhead at tree top level
With the snarling face of Chennault’s P-38 Flying Tigers,
Voices singing, “At his feet the six wing-ed seraph,
Cherubim with sleepless eye,” over and over,
A five gallon bucket of gasoline next to the gas stove,
A vision of Jesus glaring at him and yelling, “Shalom! Shalom!”
Closing his eyes and seeing eidetic images of vampires,
Hands writing things on the wall,
Cars left running all night for the getaway,
Carbon monoxide hallucinations,
A panda bear in the mulberry tree,

And then nothing
But a huge white hole
To step through
And become
Somebody else’s nightmare.