You ever wonder what it all really means?
You ever wonder if you’ll ever find your dreams?
You ever wonder why chocolates don’t freak people out even though they look like shit?
I do, sometimes. Especially when I’m walking along the sidewalk and there’s a discarded chocolate, victim of the broken grocery bag from Vons, laying in the baking sun, melting to the point that all moisture is gone from the milk chocolate, shriveled and folded upon itself, looking like a 70 year old black man in Mississippi who has been worn down by the Ku Klux Klan and Jim Crow’s unspoken legacy.
Dreams are made of what you believe.
Like that time when Honey went to the liquor store to buy some Hot Cheetos and knew that one more bag would be the way to Kyle’s heart. A weekend later, Kyle gave up drinking purple Kool-Aid because Honey said it gave her childhood diabetes.
Her 10 year old heart knew the value of white lies early in her trailer park infancy.
Not since Camp Pendleton caught fire has a dream existed in this mind. Except for those disembodied voices I’ve heard lately. Saying, “Hey” and soothing my ear with a seductive “Start” the following night.
She sounded a bit like your voice, you know. Sweet siren of my seas, scintillating my sonic sensors, stimulating my seeded needs. I thank you for the validation. I commit to make my dreams a reality for you. A reality where we dream on the beach as we make love to the gods’ ideas of commonality.
That’s what it all means. It means that we are the only things that are capable of creating and finding a bit of ourselves under our creation’s sleeves.
El poeta es dios, don’t you see?