Weaponized
everything I own
in my sleep
while dreaming of chasing
a big intruder
through the home brandishing
everything from curling iron 
to machete, as I don’t
own a gun in my dreams, having
surrendered even my dream-guns
to avoid the dream of suicide.

In sleep
I’m standing around all Viking-like
with blood at my feet
that never becomes sticky 
and washes off of every surface
easily, not like the real thing
at all, especially not when you’ve been
standing over it
for a while.  

Bolder than I have been anywhere
other than in an old story, I was;
as angry and fit as any warlord
or suddenly aggrieved ordinary
cinematic man.  As always,
in a dream I was
feeling it, and feeling it as good —

how I swung and connected,
how nothing the intruder tried
worked, how much I loved
the fantasy of the non-resistance
of bone before blade

because of course
I do know better. I know
much better than that.