there is a window,
and on it you have written your dreams–
in dry–erase
in the night,
i come,
rearranging letters and symbols,
so when you wake, you read:
a hundred reasons i don’t
a thousand i won’t
a million reasons i can’t
and still they said,
“you can, you can, you can,“
to spite all that,
i will,
i am,
I am.
and each morning,
you damp the window with a rag,
and sketch the dreams again;
watch the window,
watch the world,
change the everything of everything,
and in the morning,
they don’t mean the same–
and those dreams are left in residue streaks,
smeared cross winter frost,
summer wind and haze,
spring bloom,
and fall colored sleep.
whispers that clog and smear,
until the glass is clouded,
then useless
until all the dreams are dreamt,
and no more, no more will come.
none will stay.
and then the ten cent truth,
is the keep-on workday.
we dime-dream massless–
–dead-on-survival,
we say:
i am,
i am,
I.
in us they built some chrome plated century,
but left us shit, sin, and gurney.
so we scramble;
wear that receipt.
nickle and–
“I have a–”
The Grateful–
and too we live,
absent in absence,
absolved in absinth,
abridged in apathy.
we dime-dream-dead,
lime-cream-bread.
or so you hear, you hear we said.
for all the ramble and good,
for all the change.
?
y cdfy mnng n dd lng
.
th mdrn nglsh dn’t lv
.
th mdrn wrld dn’t cr.
w dm-drm-dd.
