Dance Atrocities and Nuclear Response : A Dream

One of the crazier dreams I’ve had in recent memory.  This was the most interesting part (forgive the writing, I wrote it immediately after waking up).  “K” is my wife.

*   *   *   *   *

I head up stairs and it’s the White House. I’m in a tuxedo, as is everyone else. Many rooms, lots of fancy people.

In one of the rooms is a Chinese modern dance group. They are doing their routine when gunmen come in and shoot all of them. Lots of yells and screams, but the party resumes.

I head outside to look for K and can’t find her, but I start to hear this deep rumbling from above. I can’t see anything but I recognize immediately that those are booster engines. I head back inside and see John Sununu getting ready to cry and saying “My God, it’s finally happened.”

I turn to another guy and I asks, “Those are booster engines, right?” He says yes. As I walk around everyone is freaking out trying to figure out what happened.

All of a sudden the TVs come on and there’s some Chinese letters on the screen and dramatic music. The top Chinese leaders are shown up on a stage with many stairs. The camera closes in on the top leader and he says, “Now the time has come for a deep sleep” and the leaders’ chairs turn into beds. Everyone starts to freak out at the location where the stage is and in the White House.

As the chairs hit full recline, inflatable characters come up from where the beds are. When they fully inflate, one character turns to another and says “I guess this means we’re in charge now. Ooh, I’ve always wanted to do this.” The character reaches over to the table with a box that has a giant button on it and pushes it. The characters clap.

CNN cuts in and says they have exclusive footage of the missile and it looks like a giant lizard flying like Superman (think Godzilla).

Everyone is distraught at the White House. Someone is trying to call the Chinese and it’s on speaker. The Chinese person says, “You promised us you’d keep them safe. America always gets to do what they want and threaten everyone else with annihilation. Now you are going to get slapped.” The White House person is trying to convince them that the shooting was just part of the dance routine and they get the cameras out. The dance group is back and performing. CNN is airing the dance when gunman show up, for real this time, and gun them all down supposedly in retaliation for the missile launch.

Everyone knows we’re screwed now, so people start accepting that we’re going to die. Nosegays are passed out with these little twigs that people break and smell. CNN figures out that the missile is going to hit a communications center for NYC but for some reason we believe we’re all going to die from this attack because of the size of the warhead.

I start walking around to find K and I can’t. I see people embracing. I walk around a corner and see a flash out of the window. “It’s happened” someone says. I see the mushroom cloud on the horizon and K is walking around the corner. I grab her and we kiss just as the shock wave hits.


Note:  Before I post some of my works of prose, I’m going to put up some poems I wrote back in college.  This is one of a few that were published in the campus honors lit journal. 






disintegration and melanoma pollute the population

as myths and gods dance in the purifying fire

built with broken bits of comprehension and

last year’s intriguing academic ramblings


when you know you do not know, etc…those eastern

astronauts must exist in elegance, beyond the

muddy speculation that the saxons were destined

to deliver to the modern mind


in a few swift strokes, ideas are destroyed—don’t

tell me power won’t prevail—don’t be so naïve my

dear neophyte, my tabula rasa, my ideal form,

left behind in the cave by hungry strangers


“they will return for me,” you said, but the mongrels

never read your books, they care not for your myths;

what can you do for them?—that’s what they want to

know; can you mystify them?




connecting to the otherworld leaves me empty and

lusting for something more here with you, but i find myself

lost in confusion, abstraction, meaningless debates of

symphonic distinction


odes of passion and depression are no good now as

peyote kicks in and offers a more likable view of

the things around the periphery, but the center still

holds, william butler, it holds all too well


the social nuclear rods have their half-lives, bylines,

empty fossil searching ambitions for plastic and

sex…nomadic wanderer, are we really this silly?

the masonic coyote says so


the hypothetical progress is wrong and the drama goes

on—absurdity prevails in the desert where a man will kill

for water to die a day later; what did our prophets see in

the wasting, decaying soul of europe?


secret clubs constitute intelligentsia, our church of reason

lives on in the halls of the unlearned and houses of cards won’t

fall if you don’t blow…so, jack, tell that sax-man to blow,

transport me with mellow notes of purity


removed from language, freedom teases me as breathing

and irrelevancy take over, blow, baby, blow those holy

words of frequency, of raw tears, of mystic memories, blow

that horn, blow, blow, blow, blow


reduce me to the common dominator, reparations are sent,

guilt still holds us down, but the music urges urgency and

release and our bodies won’t let us go, cruel joke, infamy,

artillery, kill the music, it’s not enough