Put away that pipe, Joe (or, a compendium of confusing dreams)

i was selling seashells by the seashore
in a big sombrero
under the rakish palms
i was wearing broken teeth
and a black moustache
there were many flies
my sister weaves baskets
and she made my hat
the air is hot and fishy
and something moves under the sand

we’re hiding
scared to death
in a room
in a building
with walls and halls of tin
they are coming for us
we have six kittens in a basket
all are quiet except one
I hold it tightly
we are shaking with fear
i have to smother it
now it is done

within the horizon’s heat wave haze
there’s an untrustworthy form or shape
we do not want to guess its intent
so we climb into our egg shaped capsule
made from galvanized garbage cans
and naugahide sofas
the two of us pull down on the big slot machine lever
and up We rise with fluidity
hovering above the uncertainty