Kendo

In the dream, I was in my twenties, In the old shared house on Shotwell, And some of us had somehow decided That we should clear the furniture

Out of the living-room once a week, And host a series of underground Live-blade kendo bouts. Apparently This was quite the scene. Tickets

Were a cold hundred; the video Pure money on the Internet. Or So we heard. It was our first. Hipsters lined up on the porch,

Glued three-deep in the corners. The fighters came by motorbike, In Aerostich suits, blue and red, Full-face helmets, black visors,

And naked swords in their hands. Without a word they entered, faced, And began to fight. Blue charged Red and slashed at his leg. Red

Batted the blow away, whipped his Sword around, and slid it through Blue’s shoulder at the collarbone. Blue collapsed. Blood was all over.

One of the hipster girls screamed. The thread of the dream snapped. Red dropped his sword and ran out. The audience followed. One guest

Called 911; two others held The bleeding man; the rest Vanished, including of course My housemates. I threw up, then

Slumped on the baseboard, staring At the terrible blood, realizing Everything in my life was ruined. But at least I was in my twenties.

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