I saw my own corpse

He was all dressed in yellow with jaundiced skin. Upon his chest he wore four yellow talismans. One was like a lightning bolt with a spiral on top of it. Another was shaped like Texas. The third looked like a piece of cheese. The final talisman's shape eludes me, but its color had shifted from a deep cadmium to a lemon yellow.
I touched his chest. It felt as if I were his killer and I had no remorse. "Reggie Rachuba is finally dead." And with that thought, the weight of the situation dawned upon me: I would have to dispose of the body somehow. The corpse was going to rot and putrefy. People would notice the stench and they would find me out.
Suddenly, the corpse's facial muscles began to twitch! His eyelids fluttered! The corpse of Reggie Rachuba came awake!

The build-up: Feeling like a miscreant, I walked down a random street in my dream neighborhood. It started to rain. I made my way down to the river. This was not the same Mississippi that I spent most of my life near with all of its filthy refineries and tanks full of toxic chemicals, no. This was the true Mississippi, a river for the people! And there they were, awaiting a celebratory fleet of river boats.
It was like Mardi Gras on the water. The prow of each boat featured the likeness of an artist. The people were jubilant and I was the opposite.
There wasn't much standing room left, only thin poles by the shoreline. There was an open spot among some excited children, and though I was hesitant to be near them, I stood there and beheld the spectacle.
The bystanders were trading with the boats. One crew had furs to trade with the locals. The boys around me began shouting for them. A woman in the crowd responded, "Yes, there are furs for everyone, even for Metairie and Carondelet!", and then I saw some familiar faces in the gathering. They were teachers from the school where I work. I averted my gaze, feeling somehow ashamed of being seen here. I turned to walk away, but the poles in front of me began to look more like a cage.
Finally able to escape, I came upon a boat that was also a house, and therein lay my jaundiced corpse adorned with his four yellow talismans, which I already told you about. Dreams can take you to strange places.

How do we not know that the most dire sin we all commit is neglecting every small miracle we witness while alive? A rainbow after a thunderstorm, with the smell of ozone in the air; a tiny green tree frog leaping into the palm of a small child; an egg sack bursting forth with a hundred infant spiders; best of all, a clear crisp night beneath a full Autumn moon. You might say that none of these compare to healing the blind, walking on water, or multiplying loaves and fishes to feed the multitudes, but when we ignore our lesser miracles we make a grievous error. For these minuscule miracles are symbols of God's love for us.
Dreams are like this. Dreams are small, personal miracles. Being able to fly and to run at high speeds without getting tired; a taste of religious ecstasy in an impossible TV temple; Soaring upon the back of a great turtle above and beneath the world's oceans; all of these are glimpses into a realm of great wonder, held somehow within thick bone and squishy brain fat. The inner eye sees everything. Our dreams complete us.
I saw my own dead body. I saw him open his eyes, and then I opened mine. Am I he, or did some transference take place? Is Reggie Rachuba dead in my mind? Has he been replaced, looking at the world through zombie eyes?
Nonetheless, such dreams are still miraculous. To see yourself truly from the outside is incredible. Not like a mirror or a movie, but standing above your own body while it is dead or sleeping. Thank you, God, for showing me a miracle.

"Magic Bullet Exit Wound"

Digital collage, 2010

2010 is more fun to type than 2009 was. Last night we watched a documentary about the JFK assassination, and I guess that's where this title comes from. You can't say 'assassin' without saying 'ass' twice.