the pitter patter of faded dream

we all have
that silly little
dream that
never quite dies
even as life
proves it will
assuredly never
be a reality

mine has always
been to say
live from new york
it’s saturday night
then have a
great monologue
before introducing
the musical act

the only change
over the decades
is which band
that would perform
it would be
get dead playing
kerouac’s teeth
or idles
doing colossus
as i stand just
offstage singing
along to every word

the show isn’t
what it once was
but that doesn’t
stop me from
watching the clips
and daydreaming
about one day
them having a
total nobody
take the stage
roaming the halls
where belushi and
murray once stood

well aware of
how i have needed
to go to the
laundromat and
the grocery store
for weeks now
but find casual
excuses to sit
anxious on the
couch watching the
front door and
afraid of stepping
into the world
imagining a time
where i am standing
in the spotlight
in front of millions

we all have
those silly fucking
little dreams
chasing insane
as we decay
into intangible
anxieties before
turning to dust
staring out at
nothing as we play
out fantasies
reality never
manages to fulfill

i have
see a world
that could be
while poets live
in a world
that once was
and poor bastards
like me exist
somewhere in
the middle
chasing the same
old dreams
while reliving
the car crashes
between copious

an x on the
old weathered stage
to mark your place
the band plays
as the announcer
calls your name
to the ovation
of the live
studio audience
a week of prep
for a brief moment
in the golden glow

or her
lying with her
head in the crook
of my arm
as we snuggle
in the cool grass
and i explain
how each star
is an i love you
twinkling above
as i gently kiss
her forehead

those dreams
that leave you at
the edge of tears
an instance of
in a culmination
of what will
never come true

sunday mornings
swollen with
heavy longing
too much coffee
and acceptance
to feel anything
but out of place
mouthing the words
in the quiet alone


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