The Chasm Between Dream and Reality (AKA Mustard with Fish)

Sun shines through the window like a dream.

Perfect and challenging leaving almost no steam.

Clear heads to work amidst the fog of addiction.

Simple recreation to tempt oblivion.

Spend the day the weekend the time away from work in a simple click to lower the veil of a constant high.

Bringing it down when a sliver of clarity shines through.

Calm and camatose and catatonic.

A reset. A rebirth. A struggle to become clear again without a struggle to stop.

The alternative is a hyper calamity. Loud and bright and an almost blazing clear path.

Beyond that even with similar stops exists a foggy calmness without the smod in administration.

The end becomes ugly with a long drag of tragedy that has accumulated into the endgame.

But the street is not that dark where I walk. The zombies remain haunting beyond chain-link fences that disappear into the clouds.

You and we sit and blow smoke rings of hearts and dissaproval tinged with sympathy through thte metal-laced holes and enjoy our clouds that are not as dark.

Sip and wander to the places not yet drawn to fondle the pebbles and toss them to catch.

Trying and missing until we swallow and the sipping brings the bugs that buzz and scream and pull.

Left to sift pills from white sand because our (my) curiosity cannot withstand.

So, to combat the limit of resources and wardens who guard in desperation to protect, a chug and plug to multitaks a wish to have a blast.

Fear becomes the savior because it is sense but words do not always need such a thing to taste swell.

A whispered promise in the shadow of a chilled heat to see words in the air as colors waft in under the cloak of night rolling over held hands which nothing can penetrate.

Or so we force think as a denial, a push against fear.

Paranoia looms behind a barred cell door taunting exacerbation.

Waiting to roll along on a wave of touch-induced happinesss imagining days of strong love.

Sleep lost in hope and laughter waves goodbye to chips of health but the spirit is almost strengthened (and yet resolve weakens as the fear of abandonment looms ever stronger with the higher pressure).

This is combatted with careful attention and a level of organiztion that becomes almost god-like in aim and impossible to maintain.

Self-discipline is also encouraged. But which voice calls out the best instructions?

Yet another thing entirely becomes the realm of propriety when clothing is introduced and a sense of yearning, aching curiosity beckons the bending or breaking of workplace politics that upsets the waters in a nother related area of life despite being a separate calmer entirely except for a single common bridge which acts as a stream in this context.

The context being the stream of thought and imaginary world scenes that exist not outside of my own cranium and, therefore, can never be fully or properly conveyed as an exact replica even in my own person.

But should I attempt a recreation the reader may imagine a surreal place upon which a silence lays in the thick air in which smoke hanges suspended, it appears, when in reality it flows languidly.

In the third person, the reader strolles along a nearly vacant street lines with fenced courts for basketball, tennis, and basketball.

The slight gravel on the asphalt and dirt crunches quietly with each step.

Street lights offer their hint of help in illuminating the place as the sun's dying glowing coals light up the sky and a darkness of stars begins to settle.

A group of close friends is drawing nearer in the distance and you watch as they blow smoke rings through the fence.

You hear their quiet gleeful laughs, gravel crunching, and cicadas.

Lightning bugs blink in the grass growing thorugh concrete and houses twinkle of home in the distance.

In the present reality there is no fondling of pills or fumbling of cigarette boxes.

There is the art of communication among the paranoia of past mistakes. Lingering.

Disassociated self-sabatoge pairing with known problematic dramatic risks like water and oil to create a bubble that moves.

Once again as delicious and delicate as mustard with fish.

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world


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