My dream is that my reality is true

I contemplate you like that still remaining drink at sunrise, crouching about the table in insane positions just to spy the various angles of the glass lit by morning rays. Particles within that murky liquid dance like the Bolshoi at its peak... or rats clawing the foam as they go down with their ship. I don't know, but you must be in there somewhere, and no amount of responsibility is going to stop me from taking another gulp. With the first shot you stang, but each succesive slide down my throat sent music to my brain more swinging than anything I could sling out. And though the world may transform you into beer shits and headaches, I'd horde the memory of what you once were, and brag of you to bums, but baby, isn't that what love does? So I'd grip both hands on that morning blast-cap and send the job, the flickering screen, myself, and even you off to hell. Sunrise, sunset.

But I try and I try and I try and soon it seems that my goal has far superceeded my efforts at being realistic. The machine has printed out a sparse cover letter and pages of empty fax. There is a to and fro and a vague intimation of business but no discernable purpose. Forgetting isn't this easy, damnit! Get me my lemon juice! We will unveil this invisible ink!

My dream is that my reality is true: that I could be quiet and happy.

Posted in: craigslist,poetry