D.R.E.A.M.

Dream; Cream; Bambin-o.

Not smooth, nor copious
This material.

In its present form we
Speak of it as if
It were buckets.

I question the allocations,
I question the reasons,

Viscosity can be so intangible.

The boy still hopes for
Pirate ships and
Silly sailors.

Daily chores consisting of:
Soiled strips,
Soapy water—
Reversed archetypes.

But these, they are
Just dreams of that little
Boy—Bambin-O.

Dollars or,
Dread.

Rule or,
Repressing.

Everything or,
Excitement.

Around or,
Associations.

Me or,
Momentarily.

The boy supplements efficiency
With drag and flow.

The man pushes, prods and pulls
The pieces apart.

No longer hedged on one another.
Reality swooshes in
And D.R.E.A.M.S. are set free

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Eagle

Soaring.
I fly
Hornet like agility; stability
Combat

Fighter Pilot.
I turn and burn
Every higher
Mission oriented; yet no mission control

Enemies
I Blow You Away.
Gawking menacingly
My glaring appearance thrusts you aside.

The pitch of the climb steep.
Risks steeper.

For if I were to crumble
—Stumble to the ground
I would go hungry

Shattered frames
Clenched beaks
Precarious perches
Never enough; always too much

And it show, it shows.
For I am simply one bald eagle.

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