If I’m a dreamer, have I dreamed this into being?
A mudslinger.
A baseball player.
A quarterback.
A genius at a desk, pushing eraser flotsam across a vinyl ocean.
A reader of books.
A seer of patterns on the bedroom ceiling.
A king sent to bed by Maurice Sendak.
A lover of ladies. A seeker of un-virginity.
A dramatist playing at coming together and exploding violently apart.
A debate faker.
A contrarian for the sake of dazzling conflict.
A mute amongst Marxists in Berkeley.
A caterpillar. Then an unrelated butterfly.
A close and distant witness to earthquakes, fires, shootings and riots.
Amused at an OJ, dining with Kardashians, laughing with a Trump, predicting and rejoicing the demise of facts, reveling in the mastery of lies for the sake of pill and soap sales.
A writer of novels, non-fiction and poetry.
A worshipper of female bodies.
A carver of oceans, feet on wax, spray off the tail, foam plank plunging to the bottom of blue green.
A word, smile, tongue and eyebrow manipulator.
A painter of color, contrast, feeling and arresting stoppage.
A coaxer of entropy and expansion.
A small point of bursting forth.
A lover of music repeated and connected to the verse of everyday life.
Yes, a dreamer of all this.
Proof of something from nothing.
And nothing back to nothing again.
