A plane made of tin cans soars in flames through the sky.
Black smoke trails its tail as it plummets to ground.
I stand.
I watch.
              unfazed.
The nose of the jet crashes to  the earth and it burst,
into tin butterflies,
which undoubtedly, to the skies they return.
                                                         ­                      I wake.
in the same room,
in the same bed.

the same place was I, when the sun rose,
and dove into the horizon.

the same sky,
the same clouds.

the same smell of the sewage rising through the streets I trek.
the same people at the corner store that check,
for loose cigarettes, gossip, trash talk and street knowledge I bet.

I forget.
I'm confused.

What may be normal for you may differ for me,
when gang members intimidate everyone they see,
on the crowded concrete streets of Broad St,
bums ask for change for something to eat,
then run to store like ***** for cigarette.

Is this "Normal" for you?
for me, its as plain and repetitious as a scratched CD.

I wish you could borrow my soul to understand me.