|An Imaginary Number|
One Can not Make the Square Root of =1
(Dream 109) I stood next to a blue spruce pine caked with snow. I wore my black motorcycle jacket. The leather jacket. kept me protected from the chill of a January day in Longmont, Colorado. I stood outside the back doors that lead to my dad's dental practice. I stood motionless, thinking about a poem that needed revision.
I then heard the screech of a cat on cat fight, I went to the side of his office to watch.
I was then standing in front of the large windows from which one could look into and see my dad fixing teeth. I looked in and saw a patient in the dental chair who looked rather dead, actually they looked stiff, as if they had been jolted by lighting and were frozen peculiarly. Like an icicle hanging on the office.
Drip drip Drip. The dead patient approached rigor mortis. A stiff in a dental chair.
I sucked from a large red-straw, and gulp down the 7 Up (Un-Cola) from my 7-11 Big Gulp that froze my hands, and thought about how to revise a stubborn poem.
The two words I worked over were:
And then I thought how the heck is the dental hygenist going to get that corpse off of her.