In 4 minutes I will attempt
To write words
Strung together with
Some meaning
My eyes are stuck to the screen
Gleaming
Written in an attempt to say
What I have postponed along the way
Returning to ritual
Feels good
Yet not unusual
Where do lost dreams go
From the heads of dreamers
To the world outflow
Do dreams dry up and fall away
Do dreams pack up on a rainy day
Is there a collection of dreams
On the other side of time
Or gently recycled
What was once yours
Is now mine
Do dreams rest well below the sand
Never to be unearthed or seen again
Fall like autumn leaves on a cold day
Raked together and thrown away
Or do they linger around
Like the smell of smoke in an old town car
Can you see them trying to survive
Like summer grass planted late in July
Do they hold any hope of reimurging
Like dreams floating up and resurging
Or do dreams walk away quietly
Not disrupting the feelings inside me
Or do they burn out bright and wildly
Dreams exist
Dreams must not die
It gives me hope
To run fast or fly
Some are real
Some uncertain
Take the time
Pull back the curtain
In each of us I am certain
Behind humanities weary seam
We will find
Each one of us has a dream
‘Up, one, two, three…”
Rest
I wonder how long I can do this
Just maintain
Sustain a healthy life
What about my career
Am I headed in the right direction
Ah f*ck directions
‘Up, one, two, three…”
Rest
I wonder if we will make rent this week
Can we afford to get some food tonight
I am sure we will be alright
Last time I checked we were
‘Up, one, two, three…”
Rest
I can’t believe how sore I am today
Walking over 5 miles a day
It’s a little much
To work and play
But I am tough
I am a New Yorker
‘Up, one, two, three”
Rest
4 workouts in a weeks
Trying to keep my body in peak shape
Just for the strength I need
To carry on life
To make progess where I thought
I could make none
Back
‘Up, one, two, three…”
Eyes slap open
With the crack of the jackhammer
It’s 9 AM
Monday in the City
I rush over to close the small gap
In the window
The loud crash of shovels
Iron cast on asphalt
Giant machines with splendid
Saws, jacks, and hammers
Traffic held back
While the men hit the ground
With cement hammers
The window to the city
Has shown so much to me
It is a true story
Yet an untold anomaly
Of jackhammers
I grew up in the soft quiet fields on Indiana
Acquaint myself
To the new sounds
Of my surroundings
Thank God for public transportation
This revelation
Is one of the finest gems
The beauty of the capital of the nation
We are able to move swiftly
Through station
Feet connected to floors
Cold and eternally soaked
To the floorboards of the railcars
A collective quiet continuum
Running from face to face
Some disinterested
Wearing discontent well on their face
Underneath the city
There is a currency of space
Being given and taken
Awarded and mistaken
The sole private goal
Of a seat on a reasonable Subway
Some would just rather pay
Because there is always the lingering
Unreasonable chance
That the cart is filled in advance
But we stagger on
With the commidty of space low
Take it slow
Get on the train
Pull away,
Go
It is with few words
I must strike down
The rhythm and the sound
Falling on fond ears
Restrained and freed
Recalling memories so new and old
with few words
I must paint many lines
So that a story can be told
–
