As I slipped into a sound slumber,
an anticipated array of idiosyncratic ideas flooded furiously into my manic mind.
There’s the catch!
Like a great grizzly snatching struggling salmon
I pulled the greatest poetic title from the unconscious stream.
It was glorious.
It would have changed the way that you view life.
It would have made a 1/36th Cherokee poet admit that she’s white.
It would have made the artists put down their guitars, their brushes, their masks and their fifes.
It would have gifted Hellen Keller with both speech and with sight,
and her first words would be,
“Man, that title is tight.”
Some men pursue to be Kings, Emperors, CEOs, Prime Ministers, and Chiefs.
None of these titles mean anything to me.
I had the best title last night.
It will never be topped,
in my great and unmatched wisdom.
My eyes were closed but my sight never better,
I had this title right down to the letter.
Ready to write down every letter.
But I smiled and pulled the blankets over my body.
Content with the future and with the present.
This title would produce my masterpiece, my legacy.
When they burn my body
this title will cling to humanity’s pipe as resin.
I fell asleep, knowing that my destiny was about to begin.
When I woke, I asked myself,
“What was that title, again?”