THE ETERNAL ONES OF THE DREAM

James Tate

Holding the pocket sized collection of James Tate poems up to my forehead. I pushed and pushed but it wouldn’t break the surface of my thick skull. If. I. Could. Just. Fucking. Breakthrough. I looked down and my fingers were glowing, throwing off fairy dust like sparks from a table saw on metal. I followed the glow to the laptop and flipped it open to reveal the blank page and a blinking cursor. When I say I followed, I really mean my feet lifted six inches off the ground and some otherworldly force guided me into the light. Just like Carrol Anne. I still lose sleep over the hat man in Poltergeist II. That old guy who knocks on the door in the rain with the gaunt, saggy face. I can’t get rid of him. I hope my children don’t inherit my nightmares. I wouldn’t wish those on my worst enemy. I ran into the hat man from Poltergeist two once in the middle of the night. I went to take a piss and he was right there sitting on the edge of the tub. His head in his hands. All I could see was the top of his big dumb hat. He fell asleep waiting for me. I finished and didn’t flush the toilet in fear of waking him. I just walked backwards into bed. Never saw him again. There was a song in my head. Something cinematic like a John Williams score. Slowly swelling. If I’m feeling sinister, maybe something from the Godspeed You Black Emperor record with the two hands. Raise high the roof beam, Carpenters. But I swear that cursor, It looked different, with the James Tate collection glued to my forehead. I laid my glowing fingers down at the keyboard and typed this poem.