dreams

sonnets for suckers

Are you who you want to be?

I mean at this very moment- right now, not tomorrow, not next week after you hear back about that promotion, car loan, that new jacket that you want but don’t really need but might go on sale during Easter weekend so why not, right? Are you who you want to be? Before what happens next- between the hours at sleep and the hours at work. You’re already thinking of that thing, yeah*? And once you have it or hold it or feel it or experience it, you’re just so god damn certain that it will provide a completeness that otherwise falls apart under prolonged scrutiny.  Will it finally satiate those tremors of jealousy that itch the back of your throat when you scroll through other people’s cherry-picked musings and snaps on social media? And does recognizing that you’re having those feelings bother you more than Julie’s album of her fifth fucking trip to Mexico? The one she uploaded like the goddamn second she got off the plane and found WiFi?  I mean she makes decent money so good for her- have fun, I guess- but go visit another fucking country, right?! You’re 38 years old and half Italian- go to Italy, Julie!  Christ. Or at least take photos of more than just your 9AM margaritas and the guy who fell asleep next to you on the plane. (And while we’re on the subject, those panoramic shots of you staring out at sea that you post every couple of days make you look like a fucking cunt, Brad**. Knock it off!)

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Hope is for presidents and dreams are for people who are sleeping*

Last night I dreamed I was soldier. I was embedded in a unit with friends from various social groups from every time in my life. Both men and woman whom looked exactly as I remembered them from when I knew them: high school chums I haven’t seen since, classmates from film school, all sorts of coworkers, and even some of my current, long-distance pals**. Though many have neither crossed paths nor even have been be aware of the others’ existence, we were a tight-knit group out on a mission***.

Of course the super-ego left me in charge: I led my troops through an eastern-European village of rolling hills, quaint chateaus and buxom townswomen who welcomed Anglo intervention. If we’re using Inception logic- and there’s no reason not to- I’ll blame this on a recent viewing of Saving Private Ryan. The troops marched on while smoking cigarettes, chatting about whatever was waiting for them back home. Suddenly, the guy that I worked with at McDonalds ten years ago- the one who loved Rammstein, smoked pot before, during and after his shift, and made the absolutely best custom chicken sandwiches****- stops dead in his tracks. There’s a red dot, a sniper’s marker on his chest. We all freeze and watch as the dot dances around his chest- and down to the crotch- finally resting right between his eyes. A bullhorn sounded and suddently his head evaporated like burst balloons filled with maraschino cherry juice. Someone yelled “Sweet sassy molassee!”

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