is there an objective difference between your most real dream and your most surreal day?

At the very last minute
I swapped out my ticket
And soon found myself aloft
36000 feet and a Tom Collins neat
Didn’t know that night I’d end up in your house
The landing was fine, I wandered around
From casino, to headshop, to food
Somewhere on my way, lay my soul’s only mate
Of course I didn’t know it then
I think I saw you first
In a diesel or herrods
Or maybe while talking with tom
But you saw me, before I knew where I was
And I found love was too simple a word
I don’t when, but we both woke up in
You’re brown and white lain twin bed
You smiled and laughed
When I grabbed at that sheet
That didn’t keep me from tumbling off the edge
But then I woke up
In my own bed again
Nearly in tears when I found
All that had been
The perfect woman and all
Had just been a trick of my head
But it couldn’t have been
Really, what validates
One memory over the next
You’re just as real
As the cat in my lap
And recollections of my 4th grade desk
I went back to sleep
Screaming inside
For just one more glimpse of you
Little brunette, eyes on fire,
And the heart you put back into me
‘soul mate’ is a phrase, so tossed around
It’s almost meaningless
But after that dream
I knew what it meant
And that I would find it again
2 days and 2 nights and 4 bottles later
And I haven’t found you again
But I can’t stop trying
You’re my only chance
To reopen what little’s within
2 more weeks of nights
And too many pills
But your memory sits just as strong
Burned in my mind, with a brand of some kind
And I know I’ll never forget

The way that I see it
The more sleep I find
The more chances to reenter our dream
My friends will all miss me
But they’ll know I’m happy
As I sleep forever
In our little twin bed
They’ll even see
The smile on my face
Will persist long after I’m dead

i'm still not dead, and i'm back blogging

(i'm back...sort of. i have a somewhat working internet and a broken-in-two-places pelvis. so, it only seems fitting, to post an odd poem. however, it does have a point, i promise)

drinking the half-empty glass

Mexican wizards
With avalanche hands
Bringing it down
With a vengeance

Small Fauvist purses
From antelope skins
Cost an arm and a leg
Or a pittance

It’s all about attitude
Do you want to base
Your material goods
On how much you make
Or would you rather have
As much as you can take
And believe, each of you, correct

Don’t assume or presume
That I’m selling a thing
Or giving away, it’s a given
we consume then resume
our preachings or protests
pretending we’ll all get to heaven

You say the river is wide,
deep,
murky,
beautiful,
but surely it is
there.
Surely.
you reassure.

You say i am drenched,
soaked
in its sought after liquid.
You say
You say
But i just see another rain cloud
bleeding into a puddle-
a pothole.

Tell me when that feeling
is here.
I know i will miss it,
if it is as real as i know it
to be, but
BUT
If your melodies truly cascade
with the breeze,
then i will
jump
from the highest ledge.

who

the struggle within
i say "since when?"
just as i begin
to try and rescind
inexplicable sin
i made so
there we go
i said it, you read it
who knows
what it means
what this means
what's in between
these ears
's it fears
of tears
from tears
or years
of despair
so queer
this life i'm living
so trying and giving
i find it takes
poison, not from snakes
to keep the mind tripping
to places never seen
father than in between
the aforementioned scene
of nightmarish fiends
but not dressed in ghoul
but cashmere and wool
v-necked soul sheaths
that smile with same teeth
that clinch on my throat
through lies and deceit
this troupe, I spy
an improv of life
jokes at whose expense
yours mine, from whence
did they learn
or be able to discern
me from you from you from me
or even people on t.v.
who are we
what are we
you
me
i see
only what they want
maybe it's me

or maybe not