I feel it slipping. I feel time. And sometimes,
I fear the dream is dead.
Which is not a bad thing for a dreamer.
I am not complaining. This is not a dramatic spout.
If a dream dies, death comes first for those that
Love them.
The drama of it all is a trap that shuts as it opens.
Relax.
A dream can condemn with as much grace as it liberates.
Know it.
I will never forget the day when a shrink told me to treat
My family like mental patients.
I love them madly. But will cut a motherfucker.
A dream can make people deaf, dumb, desperate, and mean.
It can turn us into satellites and find that kind of life
satisfactory.
It draws emotional vampires who come to feed
On your heart because they know your hunger and
smother with hugs that constrict.
These hapless wraiths with ideas about who you
Are and stomp around with hot meals and blankets
To mask the rage they have for the bankruptcy of
Their own happiness.
They are not happy. They are hungry, scorned,
And jilted. And they do not see you. And, if you
Forget you can lose sight of yourself.
Even if you are the one doing the seeing.
Worship not these people. Worship not your ache
for the way their limitations scorn you.
Do not get lost to the dream of “shoulds” and “should nots”.
And “Are we there yet’s”.
It will rob you of smile and song.
It can steal your time if you forget
That the dream is an escape plan.
A through line from the days that
Clung on to the belief of the lack
Of ache of later days.
A belief that kept you alive throughout
the complete and total indecipherable
bullshit and absurdity of living, through
The Mechanism of a Dream in the simple
fact that you refused to accept it
and believed that you deserved
more.
Which you do.
The dream defies.
The dreamer thrives in the belief
That there is no way in Sam Hell
That you are going to lay down
And take it like a dog because
You know you are very important.
No matter how subtle or not the
Transgression.
You are. You do.
You have a grand purpose
And one day this purpose will diffuse
And bring order to the bomb they baked
For you (that you ate because you were
Hungry. It is not all their fault.) and make
light of the plight of the grossly misunderstood,
Underestimated, dismissed
And invisible.
If you let it.
Us freaks born ill equipped
for this life.
Even amongst the strange.
Of whom we believe we are the strangest.
Don’t get carried away.
We are not. Nor never was.
And living in this state may have been
The lie all along.
Which makes a great companion for
Anxiety, self loathing, and panic.
Do not panic. Have no shame. Speak freely.
The eyes will roll and the reactions will not
Match the risk you take for opening up.
Your ideas will be shot at and ventilated
As both preventative medicine and murder.
As well as sometimes larceny. You are
Bright. You are strong. And it shames
Them. Because they want it and are
Afraid to say it for fear of failing. Do
Not fight them. There is no insult.
Only purpose.
Know that yours is the beautiful belief
That you are completely unique and entitled
To all that is in and isn’t in the universe.
And I am the type, as well. Here now.
Still standing with scars. Later in life.
Humbled by the limitations of my imagination.
Fighting to follow through. Make good.
Prove the well wishers wrong. Snuff the lie.
The stench. The black sheep on the couch.
The malnourished. The discontent.
The Hungry. Squeaking like a wheel.
Or not. And moving now, like never before.
It has never been about them.
These days I live with great urgency, love
and conviction.
The dream is changing. As I have cast it.
The dream is changing. I see now with
What and how I assembled it.
The dream has changed as I open.
Technology comes. Technology changes.
The ground dries up. The prey skips town.
The stubborn hunter wanders around looking
for mice with a machine gun amidst
a stampede of buffalo.
Licking his finger to check the wind with
eyes upward, waiting for -
Angels.
Rain.
Fog.
Sunlight.
Ticker tape.
Kisses.
Flashbulbs.
Cries of adoration.
Trumpets.
Parade.
A wink.
Justice.
Windfall.
Currency.
Revenge.
Same but different.
Algebra.
Money.
The omniscient.
To fall from the sky.
In this we go somewhat mad at the miraculous lack of echo
That comes back at us if we forget what we are doing.
Dressed in black, twirling your mustache, shaking your fist
at the sky screaming, “BRING IT.”
Death becomes The Dreamer.
Like The Spoils of War getting tongue fucked by The Runner Up.
Fret not.
There is no time.
There is no schism.
There is no peril.
Have no shame.
Speak up.
You are and have always been independent of tragedy.
But not exempt from it.
Admit it. Drop it. Say it. Even if its weird.
Keep moving. Evolve. Be present.
Do it better.
But fall not victim to the mechanism.
I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy.
The world is opening up to me.
I am the Walrus.
I am the fisherman.
The gifts keep unfolding.
There is a porch swing in the garden.
There is much work that needs to be done.
Every day I become a better man.
Which is a process that is uncomfortable
And goes hand in hand with the illumination
Of my shortcomings.
Not unlike popping open an umbrella
In the desert and holding it up like a torch
in the bright.
In the realm of poetry it is my belief that
The Runner Up does deadly best and
Becomes what he never thought of
Himself .
And becomes.
And laughs.
Because he isn’t.
Never was.
And always is.
Like you.
I fear the dream is dead.
Which is not a bad thing for a dreamer.
I am not complaining. This is not a dramatic spout.
If a dream dies, death comes first for those that
Love them.
The drama of it all is a trap that shuts as it opens.
Relax.
A dream can condemn with as much grace as it liberates.
Know it.
I will never forget the day when a shrink told me to treat
My family like mental patients.
I love them madly. But will cut a motherfucker.
A dream can make people deaf, dumb, desperate, and mean.
It can turn us into satellites and find that kind of life
satisfactory.
It draws emotional vampires who come to feed
On your heart because they know your hunger and
smother with hugs that constrict.
These hapless wraiths with ideas about who you
Are and stomp around with hot meals and blankets
To mask the rage they have for the bankruptcy of
Their own happiness.
They are not happy. They are hungry, scorned,
And jilted. And they do not see you. And, if you
Forget you can lose sight of yourself.
Even if you are the one doing the seeing.
Worship not these people. Worship not your ache
for the way their limitations scorn you.
Do not get lost to the dream of “shoulds” and “should nots”.
And “Are we there yet’s”.
It will rob you of smile and song.
It can steal your time if you forget
That the dream is an escape plan.
A through line from the days that
Clung on to the belief of the lack
Of ache of later days.
A belief that kept you alive throughout
the complete and total indecipherable
bullshit and absurdity of living, through
The Mechanism of a Dream in the simple
fact that you refused to accept it
and believed that you deserved
more.
Which you do.
The dream defies.
The dreamer thrives in the belief
That there is no way in Sam Hell
That you are going to lay down
And take it like a dog because
You know you are very important.
No matter how subtle or not the
Transgression.
You are. You do.
You have a grand purpose
And one day this purpose will diffuse
And bring order to the bomb they baked
For you (that you ate because you were
Hungry. It is not all their fault.) and make
light of the plight of the grossly misunderstood,
Underestimated, dismissed
And invisible.
If you let it.
Us freaks born ill equipped
for this life.
Even amongst the strange.
Of whom we believe we are the strangest.
Don’t get carried away.
We are not. Nor never was.
And living in this state may have been
The lie all along.
Which makes a great companion for
Anxiety, self loathing, and panic.
Do not panic. Have no shame. Speak freely.
The eyes will roll and the reactions will not
Match the risk you take for opening up.
Your ideas will be shot at and ventilated
As both preventative medicine and murder.
As well as sometimes larceny. You are
Bright. You are strong. And it shames
Them. Because they want it and are
Afraid to say it for fear of failing. Do
Not fight them. There is no insult.
Only purpose.
Know that yours is the beautiful belief
That you are completely unique and entitled
To all that is in and isn’t in the universe.
And I am the type, as well. Here now.
Still standing with scars. Later in life.
Humbled by the limitations of my imagination.
Fighting to follow through. Make good.
Prove the well wishers wrong. Snuff the lie.
The stench. The black sheep on the couch.
The malnourished. The discontent.
The Hungry. Squeaking like a wheel.
Or not. And moving now, like never before.
It has never been about them.
These days I live with great urgency, love
and conviction.
The dream is changing. As I have cast it.
The dream is changing. I see now with
What and how I assembled it.
The dream has changed as I open.
Technology comes. Technology changes.
The ground dries up. The prey skips town.
The stubborn hunter wanders around looking
for mice with a machine gun amidst
a stampede of buffalo.
Licking his finger to check the wind with
eyes upward, waiting for -
Angels.
Rain.
Fog.
Sunlight.
Ticker tape.
Kisses.
Flashbulbs.
Cries of adoration.
Trumpets.
Parade.
A wink.
Justice.
Windfall.
Currency.
Revenge.
Same but different.
Algebra.
Money.
The omniscient.
To fall from the sky.
In this we go somewhat mad at the miraculous lack of echo
That comes back at us if we forget what we are doing.
Dressed in black, twirling your mustache, shaking your fist
at the sky screaming, “BRING IT.”
Death becomes The Dreamer.
Like The Spoils of War getting tongue fucked by The Runner Up.
Fret not.
There is no time.
There is no schism.
There is no peril.
Have no shame.
Speak up.
You are and have always been independent of tragedy.
But not exempt from it.
Admit it. Drop it. Say it. Even if its weird.
Keep moving. Evolve. Be present.
Do it better.
But fall not victim to the mechanism.
I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy.
The world is opening up to me.
I am the Walrus.
I am the fisherman.
The gifts keep unfolding.
There is a porch swing in the garden.
There is much work that needs to be done.
Every day I become a better man.
Which is a process that is uncomfortable
And goes hand in hand with the illumination
Of my shortcomings.
Not unlike popping open an umbrella
In the desert and holding it up like a torch
in the bright.
In the realm of poetry it is my belief that
The Runner Up does deadly best and
Becomes what he never thought of
Himself .
And becomes.
And laughs.
Because he isn’t.
Never was.
And always is.
Like you.
