the main issue with having dream become reality is the uncertainty of the world around you

the margins are mobile, the colors seem to ignore the lines, definitions become defeatist delineation

yet the ache remains, from temple to the top of the skull as the clouds threaten rain

the pollen and pollution coat the tongue as triumph and tragedy grip each other by the waist

the sky makes love to the buildings around me in a display that borders on unsavory

yet i cannot turn away, will not divert my eyes, the feeling of need palpable in humid moans

it takes desecration to reinvent the wheel, oil on squeaky bearings, and illusionary maps

i can’t tell which side of the compass needle i am on, true north or south by west east

so i let the magnetic pull of attraction and distraction tug my shirt tails wherever it wants

the problem with dream becoming reality is it becomes impossible to separate each

tugging threads until the fool is nude on the crowded street watching the sky luridly

only the pigeons know for sure, and they are not talking, at least not to me this morning