Dream of the Month
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The Real Estate Agent
By Dian Sousa In Real Estate School they appreciate my enthusiasm, but not my approach. Everyday we have the same circular argument in which they try to convince me that the metaphysical history of a house is not its selling point. My answer is always the same, "What if I'm selling Van Gogh's house." Their answer is always the same, "He only had a room." My reaction to this seldom varies. I prostrate myself in front of the water cooler, thrash around, tear at my clothes, and pray out loud for God and Marc Chagall to paint me out of this corner and let me fly. This makes them so uncomfortable they usually give up. Lately, however, they seem bored. They need more. Now they wait until I run into the supply closet, douse myself with copier fluid, and cry out "auto-da-fe" before they'll agree to take my tour. And always with the stipulation that I call this mansion a room . . .
This is the little room, where the sunflowers break the ceiling
To let in the Holy Ghost and the blue electric stars
This is the little room where everything you touch
This is the little room where you burn without remission
Send your dreams, nightmares, hallucinations, flashbacks, speculations, premonitions, feelings of deja vu, and little itches of the spine to: Wooly Booly--Counting Sheep For Keeps.
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