It really just begins as a question:
Who do you want to be?
There’s no answer yet,
just confusing clues,
At some point the rough outline, the shadow, the future is visible:
now just a gossamer dream,
but focusing with time, condensing…
I pour myself into the process.
I’m buying what they’re selling,
buying a future,
buying a me.
They’re selling dreams, outlines, frames for faces,
65 bucks a pop!
Expensive. But this boardwalk is a long one.
I pick places.
Words etched in stone?
All the while working, working.
Pressure to be better,
pressure to do more,
to be more,
and all the while working. Guilty
because I know I could work harder,
and be happier.
I could cover more ground,
jump through more gilded hoops,
Ideas stuck on frail words
clamouring to speak out
above the clamor.
into neat columns,
busy with intricacy.
From a fermenting mess:
Then I wait,
as a man in Massachusetts thumbs through reams of dreams.