Those who stop, start again

they stop, and start, and quit, and despair, or find some fantasy that makes them not care

the builders, keep building, like the tower of babel

confused by speech, they work with their hands.

Nobody can make you quit, but yourself.

If you tell your dream to people, they will try to kill it

they are hunters of the dream, because they don’t have one to chase.

It’s easier to break things, like broken bottles under a bridge

their words are like your neighbor

who runs-over your cat

flat, scraped off the driveway with a shovel

revived

but still flat.

Meow.

The Dream is Dead.

Now, I sit in my room and write.

Recently, I broke-out of my routine

visiting a bookstore, where I don’t normally go

it was a warehouse without soul

A routine is a treasure

found

among the dirt-heaps of humanity.

This principle is true for: women, work, friends

and cities, where I might live.

I need to pick fruit, that keep my juices flowing

I spend time in the company of strangers

so I can appreciate my own.

I visit death

but I don’t stay for drinks.