Strange
What dream
A man tries to catch
In broad day
As the world busily
Passes by him.

A fleeting glimpse I had of him
seated on a small slab napping.

Was the night harsh on him
as he lay on the floor
stinking with his toils
with no roof overhead
looking at an absurd firmament
hazily spangled with stars.

Was he weighing his life in starlight
counting rusted coins of losses
breathing heavily through the void
as darkness weighed him down.

Was he waiting for a sleep
that would ripen his dreams deep
reaching him to the farthest galaxy
where every objects were made
only for him

objects of riches and success
and then deeper beyond..
love, peace and happiness.

Maybe the night returned him no dream
and trying to make up
he sought the refuge of day.

Was I the man in the glimpse
I thought
with nothing but dreams
as I rode away into the day
to embrace what is destined!

In the toxic crunch of work's latent surge,
We drone on, trapped in a much bigger surge.
Deficit of time, of money, of life,
In this job's toxic strife.

Words become meaningless,
As we toil on endlessly.
Our spirits drained, our souls consumed,
By this job's toxic fume.

But still we persist,
Driven by the need to exist.
In this toxic world's toxic race,
Where time is money, and money is pace.

The waves are silent. The waves
don't move. Nobody wants to be here
and nobody wants to leave.

There's a man trapped
under his house with an alligator.
His wife does the thin space walk:
an olive, a cherry, and an onion.

She'd sensed his gaze and took off
her dressing gown. She asked if he thought
her bottom was too big, her mind too small.
He said a faded, faulted no.

He's stupid, but he'll catch on
sooner or later. He once saw a ray in her,
but she fell out of orbit. Waxing and waning.

She's got to be careful, after
the sleeping pills and gas. She knows
it's Wednesday because she
took her last pill on Tuesday.

Allowing the world she so painstakingly
built up to ignite and burn apart
in front of both their eyes.

It's funny to see you in business
Arming them to ****
Frowning, but sending them bills
Putting money bags in your account
Collecting wealth on shared misery
The very heart of this new age tragedy
It's always the same,
Building skyscrapers and bridges
With their ghostly blood on every brick
We know your bluff, your stanze
Looking down and away,
One more terrain in disarray
Your eyes on the next target
Starting fire on next oil.