Probably, they saw themselves
wearing the white heads of doves;
who knows what they imagined
before the man of steel came
to lift up those shadowy getaway cars
and toss the crooks around like dice;
maybe they dreamed they were crows
swooping in dark V’s, stopping time
in quiet, bright blue June noons;

maybe in their long, significant dreams
they were eagles on prehensile wings,
limbs the color of fire’s dark brown light,
unencumbered by burdensome wax
on their trips to the man in the sun and back;
maybe they had dreams in which
they played the parts of traveling ghosts,
harbingers, witnesses, wraiths, hosts,
angels in silver and cherry red robes
who come trumpeting religious good news,
old-time good news that knew nothing of
doomed planets and galactic survivors.
How long did people live these natural lives,
waking up wanting to still be sleeping
after incomprehensible, adventurous visions
of being sparrows and messenger spirits?
Clark Kent punched in, once, started his first shift
in the Metropolis offices of the Daily Planet
and every morning after that morning
dreams about flight still came to heads,
but heads dreamt less of feathers and wings
and more of us rose, in pajamas with our arms
fully stretched out in front of us, as though
preparing ourselves for those first steps
into that quick, short sprint for the open window,
that window that lets us out and up:
out into the wide-awake, up into the sky.

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A past member of five national poetry slam teams (Worcester, Mass. (x2), Washington, D.C., Wilmington, Del. and Albuquerque, N.M.), Rich has published four chapbooks of poetry and for seven years hosted an open reading and slam in Newark, Delaware. Since moving to Albuquerque in March of 2008, Rich has been performing and writing steadily in the Duke City, and is a regular contributor/editor and audio archive curator at

Living day to day with physical abnormalities caused by the consumption of Monsanto’s supercorn, Rich is also an educator, adventurer and desert compound prophet. He once sang for a rock band called the Guilt and came “this close” to opening up for the Fools at a gig one time. Born in Rhode Island, Rich has lived in Massachusetts, Delaware, and Oregon. He is a favorite guest poet at Albuquerque’s Church of Beethoven series, and was once attacked by a goose at an outdoor poetry reading in rural New Mexico.

Rich’s poems have appeared in editions 1-3 of Adobe Walls: An Anthology of New Mexico Poetry, Fickle Muses, The Rag, Menagerie, Clutching at Straws, 4x4, Forbidden Panda, Shot Glass Journal, Mutant Root, The Mas Tequila Review, Borderline and The Legendary. Hear some of his poems at

4 responses to “Before Superman Arrived, People Had Very Limited Options With Respect to their Dreams about Flying”

  1. Rachel says:

    I have insomnia and this is perfect. Not in that order.

  2. Rich Boucher says:

    Dear Rachel,

    Thank you so much for your comment! I glad the poem spent some time with you during your insomnia!

  3. Linda says:

    I may never find the open window, but I will dream of it each night.

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