dream

and so i lie down to rest. and hope the small glass of white does the trick. i want to fall quickly into an other (AN other) place where fate unfolds much quicker than here, where i can see all that i desire to see right there, right now, then, and later. life can be weird in slumber, and yet dreaming is so delicious to me…usually. i hope not to dream of anything too wretched tonight…my imagination runs wild, blessed, cursed, and bucking full of the day’s internet imagery; butterfly-kissed experiences would be preferable, good food, babies, flying over canyons, cloud-grabbing, easy conversations flowing fluid around me…absolute freedom from chains, mediocrity, birthrights, servitude, and parking meters… and from coffee without enough cream, snow, and arguments with spouses and kids talking back and absentee bosses… no on-the-job training, no missed connections; no burnt toast, spilled milk, lemon juice in paper cuts, stubbed toes, or smoking roaches. just good times. friendly kisses from strangers you (might) like, furtive glances, easy actions, time travel, no need to get high… the couch is squeaking, the man is snoring, sleep is coming. calling me. calling you to snuggle in with your lover or fine linen, turn off the lights, put the phone on vibrate, slip into nothing, close your eyes and just breathe… review the day, your life, dinner, and tomorrow’s schedule; thank god you weren’t buried in the rubble of haiti and when you wake up in the morning, do something better with your god-awful life/self…something better than you did today. you’re not stuck in the hospital, broken legs, ventilator/breathing tube, red infectious waste bags, chartreuse puking bins, burning-like-hell IVs, jaundiced eyes and chirpy nurses sniffing coke in the bathroom tending to you or your thin, graying mother/next-of-kin… your son is not in a coma after an alcoholic crash, or in prison sexually contemplated… your 13 year old daughter is not delivering twins sired by her english teacher… you have two legs and one head, two eyes, two hands, a heart, and probably a car that all work. if not, get your lazy ass on the bus. because you weren’t buried in. the. rubble. of haiti… your child wasn’t pulled out after several days trapped, pissing and shitting herself, bleeding and crying out to the heavens for the grace of the good lord/god you taught her to believe in. to pray to, kneeling on little ashy knees, hands clasped in front of juicy cheeks… no, your daughter wasn’t pulled out only to die mere hours later because you couldn’t provide the care she needed…because the hospital she needed actually fell down into rubble…. your teenage son wasn’t shot in the head while getting off the city bus in chicago, your dog wasn’t trapped in the fire; you weren’t even molested when you were little. get up in the morning and do something better. try something new. do what scares you. admit your shit and walk faster. live like tomorrow is likely but not promised. call your mother. hug your kids, smile at your lover, let his/her stupid jokes slide… don’t get so angry when you drive; fucking volunteer sometimes. quit ranting about nothing, saying what you can’t. you can. it’s nothing. spilled milk. lemon juice in a paper cut. surface pains that will pass. unlike the permanent aches of sending your kid to iraq or into the store only to watch the store (or the war effort) collapse just minutes later…into rubble. what do you know about hurt? go to sleep and dream. touch. feel. know yourself. don’t dwell. live. appreciate. ask. give. haiku. freestyle. forgive. and always, pray for the (wo)man you are; give thanks for the one you are not.