I was sauntering through a dream
one afternoon, and I say “sauntering”
because I read somewhere about
something that Emerson had said
about sauntering. I like the way
the word “sauntering” comes across
when you spell it out on the page,
though I don’t think I’d know what
to do, exactly, if you were to ask me
right now to saunter on over. So

maybe I was just moving with my usual
semi-conscious walk, only sort of
aware of the goings-on outside of me,
while the inside riot ticked on and
diverted the better part of my resources;
I did manage to take in a few swatches,
here and there, of the dreary industrial
landscape that made up this dream.

It’s always like that in my dreams,
honestly, rarely ever inviting
environs opening themselves up.
This might be why I usually find
myself tuned out so often, but I
digress. I was sauntering, no
walking in my semi-conscious semi-solid
state, taking note of the surroundings
and quickly forgetting them, when
I saw standing in my way, just ahead,
the ghost of Stephen Malkmus.

And I was sort of confused, because
Stephen Malkmus is definitely not
dead, unless I’m confusing Stephen
Malkmus for David Bowie, which
I’m sure I’m not. So, what the Hell
was his ghost doing there? Wouldn’t it
make more sense for him to be at
a Pavement reunion show? But
he didn’t even have his guitar.
So I said to him, “Stephen,
what’s good? Are you keeping well
these days? How’s the old trigger cut?”

And Stephen (no slouch, he),
without missing a beat, said to me,
“There’s no more room for you here.”
And I said “Uh, Stephen, are you
doing alright, bud?” but no sooner
did I utter “bud” than the ghost
of Stephen Malkmus unzipped his chest,
from which issued a towering column
of lime-flavored gelatin, wriggling and
translucent and green against the gray
backdrop of this dream I no longer
wanted to be sauntering through.