It doesn’t feel real, it was a dream, start to finish,
Part of me wishes to go to sleep,
While part of me never wants the dream to diminish.
I could sleep and start tomorrow with a fresh beginning,
Or I could keep going, keep the promise to myself showing the furthest reaches of true winning.
I hearken back to college. Ages ago, when barenaked ladies were lying in bed just like Brian Wilson did. There is a feeling in the air now that was similar to then. A similar palpable scent somehow perhaps. That magical feeling that is subdued, depressed, but simultaneously capable of striking sparks anywhere like Hunter in Vegas on the 4th of July. Why must we endure these strides? Why is the world so far and wide, yet so narrow and closed? How does one face down the demons on their own? Through music, through poems, through unknowns? We lay bare our chests and strike beats to the moon. We swoon and chant and dance in an elegant manner for the sake of taking a chance on the lives that we could have had. I want to soak in love and mercy though the hour is late, and I don’t know in fact if I can wait on this wooden slate park bench for the show to begin. All the while an inebriated homeless man sleeps behind me with his head wedged behind the trash can and his left arm and his right hand contorted in a grotesquely distorted manner. What madness drives me? What madness drives them? What madness drives him? Is it the same? What is his name? I would ask, but I don’t wish to wake him. I dream of time machines, and county fair treats, and saying what we mean, and laughing in the streets, and unforeseen lights turning green, and finding what completes. Us.
I want to go along on the entire ride, the entire tour until the end, but first I want to make time bend and go back to start fresh. I want a clean slate but also what I’ve learned from the pain. Would anything remain? Is there a known end? Do we merely fade off as our perception of time lengthens, as our brain slowly runs out of oxygen; and we defy known physics with our massive onslaught of life in a frantic menagerie of imagery and thought?
I’m caught, but by what or who am I caught?
I strum the strings and hum the tune to an unknown song. The words will have grown and be known before long.
The voices long to be heard
The memories want to be revealed
The choices yearn to cured
The burn believes itself to be healed
The spotlight quickly bleeds through the smoky darkness,
Primary colors form prisms hanging over the top of the sky,
My heart slowly chases the rusty spark that’s,
Like a cow bell clanging on the edge of why.
You rescued me without even knowing it,
You saved me without saying a word,
You fought for me without throwing a fit,
And helped me fly without wings or wind stirred.
There are benefits that reach beneath pockets,
There are stars that shine in your eyes,
I bite my fingernails before taking off in my rockets,
That take me beyond where I can wear a disguise.
I now walk across the white painted lines,
Empty stalls waiting for cars, later today, but still called tomorrow,
I have risen to the rooftop beyond the suffocating vines,
And I am up above my own sorrow.
I can see it, I can feel it, but I rest upon it like the ground,
Now I free it, so the night can steal it,
And it can no longer make a sound.
I am compact. I have come to my end, but the harmony has brought me back to my only friend.
There is a grainier sand box up here like his,
That does not hold piano legs,
Sirens blur nearly five blocks from this,
And someone for mercy begs.
A ladder climbs further, but the bottom four rungs are blocked,
And I wonder if my life has worth or, if my ship will always be docked.
There is a feather resting where several later will drive, and the voices seem to have narrowed to one, and for a time, and in a way, I’m thankful I’m alive, and somehow a new life is begun.
So now I start the downward descent,
In the shiny steel box near the burgundy Willys ride,
Somehow the slumber will have to relent,
Somehow the answer lies inside.
I can still faintly smell the bottoms of my feet beneath the nails of the index and middle fingers of my left hand,
And I wish to daintily tell you a lot when I get home and breathe my tails that linger, as somehow you’ll understand.
But you won’t be there when I arrive,
Or tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, or ever again.
And I fear I’ve come too near to the end of a friendship with you my more than just a friend.
You’ve tormented me, and encouraged me, and sung to me, and made me hide.
You’ve surely cemented me, given a third lung to me, and crossed the great divide.
The breeze now has a bit of a chill to it, and I cross the street before the light,
And I know I’ll never have a real true fit,
And I know I need the night.
There is a man with a headlamp, a flash light, three bags, a fanny pack, and a bike, saying “arugula and bacon bits” and it’s somehow right.
The river guides me home as it were, walking against the direction that it flows,
Love and mercy can both stir and be a blur,
While the awe inside me grows.
A chain link fence surrounds the Bard’s western dancing stage,
And I cry for the lack of being able to sing you my song,
To show you how a heart can break the bars on its cage,
To show you how my lovely life isn’t wrong,
Somehow, in some way, before I come to the end, my only friend, of my lonely seventh age,
For back at the beginning is where I belong.