corny dreams

 

there’s a corn vendor

each day

on my street,

and he blows his horn

and he pushes his cart

full of potato chips

hanging off the side

 

and he wears a straw hat

to beat the heat,

the same white button-up

the same

olive-green pants

 

blowing his horn

 

pushing his cart

 

he’s got mayonnaise, a shaker full of salt,

parmesan cheese, and a spray bottle

full of synthetic lime juice

 

this man looked

at corn on the cob one day

and he saw

comfortable shoes for himself, nice sheets, different colored

shirts and pants,

a hot meal every day,

himself in a house, being served by a woman that loves him dearly,

beautiful children running and laughing all around him

that would remind him of himself

as a little boy

 

for now he’s here

on my street,

chasing those visions,

one by one,

blowing that horn for it all

 

and I know,

I can tell,

even in the rain

that he hasn’t quite

given up yet

 

the way he tilts his straw hat

and wipes his tired face

with that old faithful handkerchief

that hangs from his pocket

 

I am

for him

 

 

a white dog at the end of a long leash

 

there will be the day

when I can’t stand it and I run

and leave all you fuckers behind,

and everything that’s anything

to me

will fit

inside

a couple a suitcases

 

a spot on the ocean

where I can light up at sea

with a punch drunk captain

on the biggest wave

that tosses us, aiming

to kill us both

 

and the people that I know

will be the kind to show up with ugly scars

down the side of their face,

missing eyeballs, hooks for hands, and best of all

with at least something to say;

willing to burn bridges and to tell you

to fuck yourself