At some kind of gallery night
In some kind of gallery
I’m talking to Edmund the Bastard
The guy from King Lear
I tell him how much I loved his line about shadows standing up for bastards
He says, “I didn’t call upon shadows. I called upon the gods. You’ve got me confused with that Macbeth fella. He called upon shadows. And we all know how well it worked out for him.”
I stand corrected
But then it hits me
Edmund seems to be aware of Macbeth’s bad end but not his own
So I take that as my cue
To try to get him to buy into a timeshare hustle
And that’s when I realized
That I wasn’t even myself
In the new dream
But I had taken on the role of that one dude from years back who used to host that poetry open mic
And then I stopped going to that poetry open mic
But then I later heard that the host guy used to use the open mic to cultivate marks for a timeshare scam
The host guy was never about the poetry
Yet his life was a True American Epic
Poetry
Cloaking
A money grubbing scam
Edmund seems intrigued
My pitch is strong
But I don’t remember if I sealed the deal
Things trailed off
Or I woke up
I’m not entirely sure
