-The citizen-

last night I wrote Pablo Neruda’s “The citizen”.

the dream didn’t portray me in the process of writing it down,

but somehow implied my authorship of "The citizen".

at one point a gang of three came to me representing

a certain authority asking about “The citizen”—

of how I came to write such a poem.

one aggressive young man pulled-up a chair and sat

at my table, his sharp elbows indenting the oilcloth

and his little polished fists with their scrubbed-red knuckles

pushing into the sides of his face waiting to hear me address

the meaning behind the carpenter's implements of “The citizen”.

this happened as I sat waiting to be served inside a small beatnik-type cafe

at a table beneath a large wall poster of Nina Simone,— her full face

half-covered in shadow, and at the base in bold caps the name: “NINA”.

it was as if she was being introduced, as the juke began bopping:

"Mississippi Goddam"–– and when I woke-up, the vision of that poster

hanging inside the small cafe, and that voice from the back of her throat,

and "The citizen" running through the electrode-like vines of my brain

had me agonizing over what was true, and what, but a dream.