Notes: Basically I visualize a grey stage with a grey man–the Soloist– and a broom. He is sweeping away a pile of bodies: some monstrous, some beautiful, or alien. I can also see him sweeping up flowers, gemstones, coins, bones, computers and various other strange things.
It’s a thankless job
though I couldn’t give less a damn about being thanked.
Some call me the Sweeper:
like it’s something special
like I do something sacred.
But I’ll tell you, now, since you are here
that every good foundation is judged by its plumbing.
Cleaning the bodies of monsters and fairies,
lost memories clogging the arteries of the brain:
the backlog of secrets crammed up to make someone
A dreamer is a hazard
an accident waiting to happen
if you don’t clean them out.
It’s easy to get caught up in their garbage
in their filth
and no matter much you do
how many fairy-tales you wash away
or props you take apart,
they always leave you stained:
in some way.
That’s why I can’t stand them.
I’m a glorified janitor of the unconscious
and people pay me no mind
which lets me see all of their
mysteries and secrets
all day and every night.
Yes, that’s right.
Unicorns are a hazard
try surprising one sometime.
Zombies are a mess
to get out of the cracks in the mind.
Vampires wear out their welcomes fast
and gods really don’t know when to die.
I won’t even go into the sex dreams,
but I’ve seen worse.
Whether dream or nightmare, neither smells like roses when the dreamers are done,
when they throw them away.
It’s the lucids that make it annoying:
always getting in your way,
trying to change the scenes you’re already cleaning
and they think they’ve got so much to say.
I don’t care if they can fly or how many wishes they’d like.
But the strangest thing I’d ever seen:
was from a man with a Kaiser mustache
who dreamed of a World-Tree and a ladder:
of flying women in armor and wings,
of blond-haired, blue-eyed heroes with swords and rings
all wearing Swastikas and killing dwarves with yellow stars
on faded coats.
Add the women drinking and ripping men apart
and a dark spirit chasing the white-robed Kaiser-man and you see what I mean.
He called himself Zarathustra: though I know that wasn’t his name.
He claimed he separated good and evil and then united them again.
I bet he regretted what he called when they all came.
What a mess.
He even asked me to clean it all up for him,
that it wasn’t what he dreamed for
I could have just said nothing, but instead reminded him that he didn’t want my help
that, “God is dead.”
Then I left up the ladder.
because I don’t get paid nearly enough to kill overgrown weeds, Nazi gods
and drunken cannibals.
In fact, I don’t get paid at all.
I don’t even remember how I got this tattoo–
this dragon-tattoo like from some book in a drugstore–
though I hope it was from something fun.
The truth is
I do not remember much
except for one thing.
Because I know
that for all the sweeping I do here
all the time I spend in your daydreams
and your sleep,
I never dream.
And I … never will.