dream editor

I wonder if I can fix this.
It's too long, I wonder if 
I can go back in and all 
through and eviscerate
the flab. Remove the 
useless guts and leave 
the visceral pull, draw 
and flow untouched! 
Let concision's incision
be undetectable! Scar 
stitched neat and disappears
with a kiss, leaving us trim,
vigorous and succinct. The 
whole thing's half what it 
was! Damn. What I need 

is an editor, to bat her eyes 
and chase belfries of flitting 
ideas back where they came, 
to fester in other ways, perchance. 
Good for something eventually, 
but not this here now. She - now, 
don't tag me with the "women's
work" slur, pal. Many storied 
and legendary editors have 
been men, but for me I feel 
some yin yang model has to be 
operated on.

It's an artistic matter, call it integrity.
An instinct you can't bare in the light
without a wince, but it's real and there.
My male creative urge can't kow tow 
to a dude, to truss it all up cowed
and bowed, towed back to some
unused lot! Him crossing this
and that out, telling me where
to stick it, no. I can't respect a man
who thinks he can tell me that. It's
self-respect really. But a woman?
That's different, she's highly-trained.
I respect her gall, balls and nerve
getting up the gumption to tell me
what's-what, as a matter of impartial
eye and dispassionate interest
in a better whole that benefits
us both.

It'd be

a bit suspicious for a man to pose that way,
when we both know we should be clashing
in an oiled pose-down vying for the prize!
Who told you you were my editorial equal,
buddy? Let's settle it over a beer
and a game of pool! 

And then the piece ends up as-was. 

Waste of time, but a real sharp, smart 
professional type dame, she can waltz
into my shadowed office at any time, 

door's open - and give me a case 
of amendments and redactions. I take it 
evenly, sanguine and deadpan naive.
I'll crack out and offer around 
the harsh, ambersmooth hooch 
I stock, there's a pair of clean
glasses - she can tell me go to hell!
If she likes.

I'll be like, 
With you, toots? Hell, I hear hell's
lovely this time of year. But already 

I'm waking up, with a bad taste 
in my mouth I can't quite perceive
yet, but it's there. The dream 

was too long, but it's too late 
to go back and make it shorter 
now. You just have to see

what there is 
to do about the day.