nothing changes


in the sandbox,
what were dreams?

Mike Mulligan & his Steam Shovel.
The Silver Star of Deadwood City.
The Meddling Kid who Unwrapped the Mummy.
today the monkey bars,
tomorrow the world.

big talk from little people.
couldn’t reach the steering wheel
without the Yellow Pages.
couldn’t pay for Chicken McNuggets
without Grandpa’s pocket wages.

a little further down the lane,
the marks on the wall continue
their slow advance towards the ceiling.
with an aura of invincibility
(in overdrive), we plot
and nauseate
and agitate once-calm waters.
Johnny Rebel holding four aces,
betting our clams on the dolphin races.

sometimes dreams could overwhelm,
smash you. leering. hurtful.
dreams born and died
as we slipped on the banana peels
that recent generations have callously dropped
on the floor. sources of potassium
settling the score.

a time of great vanquishing.
torment. exorcism. Glass Joe is down.
dreams put on crutches.
hobbling. crippled. fade into background.

blacken the eye,
dreams are blueprints,
leaving tracks into the moors,
and we get by.

now.

as you are ‘people-watching’ from the
window of the 4th floor lunchroom,
your breath fogging the glass and your
ambitions plotting Their Great Escape,
the planet revolving as does the
Healthy Choice in the microwave,
flaring your nostrils about the
impenetrable meat locker of absurd probability
named The Quarterly Fund Performance,

what are dreams?

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