Aspirations

In my dreams, the only two blondish boys I ever knew from the Eastern Bloc are trying to befriend and circumvent each other



I'd hate to make a list of things I'd love to do, so I'll ward off the pressure by carving out an instance in this little space.


I'd love to watch the cliffside sunset hugging the last standing lighthouse in Maine, shipwrecked on the eve of the end.

To cook a hearty soup on a rainy day
for a child who asks me the meaning of life.

To sit, sunken-eyed and programming on the 29th floor of a darkly exaggerated metaphor for the messiah's office.

To spend an afternoon in 1992,
in the feverish summer meadows of my birthplace, before the opulence of urban decay smoked the color from the skies.

To fly, but only the way I do in dreams.

To have saved everything. To have jars and jars of brains connected at the medulla by fluorescent tubes, Terabytes, all mine, archived for every year of my life.



To wake up one morning a million years from now,
in the deadest of far space. No longer sentient really,

only a stem and a pair of small blue lens, shifting side to side.
Sent in a small black box by a watchmaker in a moment of optimism
to find a glimpse of the next frontier....