i seek a fresh page
on which i may be written
a new palate upon which the landscape
of this soul may be inked
         i dreamt
i stand here on the edge of night
looking out over the vast empty parking lot
of some nameless something-mart
a single piece of paper walks with a slow wind across
the desert of pavement
i turn and leave
walking down a tree lined street
only streetlights and silent empty cars
only the night noise of suburbia
a television sound of gunfire and laughter
a dog whispering loudly of his intents to be free
of whatever chain that binds him to his unfriendly fate
i walk for hours it seems
marvelling at the stillness of suburbia's intense isolations
walking from pool of streetlight to pool of streetlight
i finally come to a stop benith one
silence
nothing beyond this place is real
i ask aloud of the meanings of these things
and a friends voice from a long ago conversation
says "one of these things are not like the others..."
and he fades away back into the past
and he takes the dream with him
i wake slowly
to the sounds of a empty apartment
i walked out on my lover
i am alone
it is not a dream
and one of these things is just like all the rest
of the things that don't fit in round holes