An Un-American Dream

09 Nov

There are those, I know them, who still
Dream of good fences, fine back yards
With friendly neighbors who manicure
Lawns and drive shiny cars with freshly
Pressed clothes. They dream of happy
Babies who grow into obedient soccer-
Playing children. They dream of successful
Husbands who stay fit and are kind, mostly.
And these are good dreams. For them. For
Me, this is a fucking nightmare. I would rather
Beat my head in with a block until my brains
Leak out of my skull, leaving a damp, sticky,
Smelly mess. My dream is far less familiar.

I dream of lithium-laced sunsets, with hot
Sand between my toes and the gentle
Thud of yesterday’s hangover slowly drifting
Away with the icy rum drink in my hand. I
Dream of revolving and forever changing
Backdrops where downstage I will play out
My life. Scenes changing through road trips
And train rides and flights to far-away lands
Real or imagined—a blend of hallucinations
And nomadic drifting to keep my eyes from
Developing a steady gaze, fearing anything
Familiar. I dream that words will pour out
Of my head and onto pages, inspiring and
Informing and igniting others. I dream of
Music fusing jazz, punk, opera and rage to
Form a perfect sound, representative of all
This. I dream of art, sculpting culture and
Painting all the strange creatures that dwell
In my brain. And I dream of a dance that brings
The community together in beauty and expression.

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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in POETRY: Culture


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