Jack Dorsey Yoga Dream

Drunk off the Korean liquor, I swam into bed, stretched into a crucifixion pose. There I spun, floated into the mouth of sleep.

Soon I dreamt I was back at college, holding a stack of Bibles. I was heavy as the weight of a planet, but my soul was like dust, my soul dispersing, in a trillion mites, moving through a blustery passage of autumnal air.

My bald head felt like a solar panel, collecting courage in golden shine.

Milky clouds parted and a fire red sun hovered forth, over the horizon, and its heat rose in ripples, sizzled the sidewalk, shifted the season.

I was sweating. And I was searching. For the library. Everywhere. I wandered and wandered. My feet were claws. I was a cognoscenti with an invisible gun to my head. I was a knife to a toddler’s neck, an intruder in an Armani suicide suit.

I was diffident and chimerical. I was a belly-dancer making a declaration of war.

Stalking the mysteriously vast, verdant campus, the campus seemed ancient yet novel. It was a complicated system of bushes, trees, flowers, and glass buildings. It was a matrix, a whole new world. A world bigger and weirder and far more fragrant than I remember it. Almost every building had been reshaped, remodeled. Once gray and square, the structures were now clear as freshwater and either triangular as pyramids or tubular as penises. Everything was towering stacks of glass.

It was as if the college had been destroyed and rebuilt by gay aliens. Freudian flashers. Or extraterrestrial Egyptians with Napoleon complexes.

The students on campus all looked so young. Many were in grizzly bear suits; some were in bikinis, and were girls going wild, twerking and dancing like strippers as they pranced about the college. And many egg-shaped bodies were wearing VR goggles, and a ziggy zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-zooming by on neon-flashing hoverboards.

An aboriginal tribesman, in only a loincloth, his body painted bright bold colors, held a sharp wooden spear, and darted through the campus. He was chasing a cheetah creature. The cheetah bolted by, its mouth frothing. I was amazed at how adroitly it maneuvered through the masses. And the smile twisting at its lips displayed admirable mirth.

It dawned on me, like a lightning bolt, like God’s command, that I should be looking elsewhere for the library. But where? In the eyes of the masses, I still was only a fairy. A face for the toilet. A cockroach on hindlegs. Dead as wood.

Worse yet, I was an iconoclast. I’d violated the sacred library covenant. Flicking my gaze at the Bibles, at their yellowish pages, I couldn’t believe I’d kept them for so long.

Passing by a young, petite nun, with rotted teeth and the body of a goat, I saw the nun’s upper lip curling in the hush of the wind. In her tiny hands, she clutched and displayed, over her chest, a handwritten sign asking for Jesus money because her cat was starving.

About to slip her $20, I asked her if she smoked crack. She said no. She said she didn’t even smoke weed. I told her she should smoke weed, passed her the $20, and politely suggested she talk to Jesus about learning coding or robotics.

Around and around and around I went. My footsteps were in hieroglyphic patterns. Every path I cut through the campus led me elsewhere. None led to the library.

I saw the shiny triangular football stadium. I saw a pyramid pavilion. A carrot-shaped gazebo. But still no fucking library.

Then I trudged by a shivering longnecked slender man in a ski mask and silver wetsuit. His legs looked far too long for his frame. He was playing “Hangar 18” by Megadeth on a set of bagpipes as he stood defiantly in front of the sprawling flying saucer cafeteria that had an assortment of dining options way superior to when I attended the school, only 15 years prior. (Dammit, sometimes I’d skateboard a mile in the snow to get fresh, hot donuts! You ever skateboard in the snow? DON’T EVEN FUCKING TRY!)

I found my way to a domed building. It was nondescript. Solid gray, with no windows. It had only a five-story-high open double door leading up to its golden dome.

A force of concern, a signal of nature drew me forward, and from behind the dome, I could see the library’s clocktower. Figuring I was following the correct direction, I allowed the flow, knowingly hopping on one leg.

I hopped and hopped, into the dome; inside, it was like a massive post-apocalyptic subway station, empty, with veins of corridors branching in multiple directions. But every corridor led to a dead end. A closed door. Or a door painted over a wall.

I hopped backward, still on one leg, out of the dome, and saw the clocktower of the library was a balloon, a hot-air balloon, floating upwards slowly, toward a fluffy white ball of clouds.

The cheetah ran by me again, but I didn’t spot the tribesman. The cheetah stopped, after it passed me, and did a U-turn, trotted over.

The cheetah lifted its gaze and our eyes connected. Blasts of electricity bolted between us. The cheetah shocked me with an all-knowing look. It knew where the library was. I knew it knew. It knew that I knew that it knew.

Lifting my wing, I let my stack of Bibles tumble to the ground. Then I tore off my wolf gray Armani suicide suit, and, like Hulk Hogan, I ripped my white dress shirt to shreds and then wiped away the shirt’s stringy bits, like fallen hairs, and Kung Fu kicked off my possum pussy wingtips.

Donning only my tiger-print man thong and knee-high beige llama socks, my hairy body was joyously exposed to the elements. Then I bent forward, collected my Bibles, stood upright, and triumphantly mounted the cheetah, like a horse, and I yodeled, and the creature called God.

The cheetah kicked up steam, sprinted fast as fuck onto the outside road, then hit the highway, and we ran through rush-hour traffic, the cheetah weaving through the gridlock, motorists double-taking, rubbernecking, snapping cell phone photos of me, a hairy middle-aged man, in a thong. Me, a hairy man, with a stack of Bibles, tucked under my arm. Me, riding a cheetah, a fucking cheetah, like a galloping horse, through the machinery, noise, and science of the highway.

The cheetah took an exit, barreled down an offramp, toward an abandoned building. The cheetah then stopped in front of the massive decaying tower and growled.

I stepped off the cheetah, and the animal darted off. Then the aboriginal tribesman reappeared, this time in a jetpack, flying after the cheetah, shouting tribal chants.

I hopped on one leg toward the dark tower. It was an empty library, alright, commandeered, the property purchased by Twitter. An electronic billboard flickered atop the rotting remains of the structure, displaying a picture of Jack Dorsey, naked, in a yoga pose.

In front of the building was a beeping attention box; its yellow lights pulsed like I was looking down at it from a plane, as if approaching a city at night…

Beside the box was a firepit, constructed from a circle of broken Korean liquor bottles. In the pit’s center was a burning pile of Bibles.