Do you know when I wake to fictionalize my dreams, it’s you I have in mind?--thinking of someday when we’ll show-and-tell what things have been in the interim...
Former friends, still brimming with adolescent dreams, ambitions to prove fuckfuckfuck yes we can do this, turn our fantasies into real delights, this can be who we are…
An existence of sacrifice, necessarily.
It keeps us in love.
And it makes me feel like I’m still a child, you’re still a child, keep at it and we can keep the death hawks away--
But wifey, I did it all, I wrote the book I stalked the streets of life, of Manhattan, of Long Island, stalked thru 1,183 pages of my first novel, sold the book, got an advance, whooped, hallelujah’d, went on, did everything you’re supposed to do in life.
Nothing ever came of it.
No ‘generation’ is ‘new.’ There’s ‘nothing new under the sun.’ ‘All is vanity.’
Forget it, wifey. Go to sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.
Look that up in Latin, it means ‘Here’s the chalice,’ and be sure there’s wine in it.