Dream: 3

Monday, 16 January 2017

There was a city. 
San Francisco, 2046.
Hot and humid, almost Caribbean-like.

Buildings on buildings. 
Skyscrapers next to hovels.
Spikes of gun metal, rising in spires.
Concrete ghettos, painted in pastel neons.
Thatched huts, as if the old miners never left.

There was a waterfront. 
Crowded with noisy street vendors, jostling crowds and
Bars that open at 10am for breakfast and a pint.

T’was as if the city had spilled over, into the bay… 
Fisherman’s Wharf had metastasized; now nearly touching Alcatraz.
Nothing left of the old Piers, and what had been the Embarcadero.

I went to the waterfront one morning.
For breakfast. Then to enjoy a jaunt on the water.

On the water highways, there are giant floating barges,
Lumbering along, hardly an inch above the surface,
Packed with passengers, like cattle.
Tour guides speak with megaphones, 
rehearsing history for a nickel.

For the right smile and bribe, 
They’ll rent you a hover skiff, 
If you want to skip the lines. 
Those are fast.

On the second story of the breakfast place, 
There’s a view overlooking the water. 
I brought my red blanket with me, 
And ate in silence.

Some days I talk to her, 
But other days I prefer silence. 
Today she knows to leave me alone.

Two henchmen. 
Boss wants me.

I leave. My breakfast mostly untouched. 
Blanket on chair.

Escorted to the boss. 
Slobbering, slimy filth.

Surrounded by sychopants, 
I’m greeted by their gaggle of snickers.

Berating, congratulating and coaxing me
All at once. 
Boss gives me his orders and instructions. 
Another job. Good money this time.

I leave the compound…
As I’m walking away I push the button.

The building explodes.

I run. 
I’m afaid I’ll be chased. 
I don’t know if I’m too afraid or not nearly afraid enough. 
I keep running, back alleys, side streets, shadows.

I escape to the safe house on the outskirts.
Abandoned. Wooden. Slats.
Almost haunted.

Near a wood. 
The trees were mostly dead.
But there was cover there.

There was a synthetic wolf sent to get me.
It had bombs attached to it.
I had to shoot it.

But I found a St. Bernard.
This dog helped me. It’s a rare breed. 
Synthetic, unregulated.

Hiding from surveillance satellites, 
At night I’d crawl back into the house,
And send signals out to the network,

The European branch is stuck in a debate. 
Their mercenaries are doing hits just for money.

One night, it’s too cold outside to go back out. 
I hide in an abandoned attic. Arms around my knees. 
Shivering in the corner. Nursing memories.

That’s where Lana found me.
And she was carrying my blanket.