shoot the moon, it's a big target; a monologue

cashing dreams in takes too long and anyway, i'm comfortable having them sit around like long-overdue library books you just get soo used to having something a certain way, ya know?, but enough about that i have seasonal affection disorder in reverse summer and its goddam glare and sweat all down my back and the stench of hot cement makes me sick to my stomach i can't bear leave the house, when it rains i open all the windows and after months turn the blinds and sit nursing my insomnia and listen to the pitter patter of raindrops and oyster shells falling from the sky as the pretentious aristocrat on the moon blows on the occasional dandelions he finds wishing for a ride-home which drift along and with time petrify and solidify and get soo used to the cold and the dark and anyway the sky is soo comfortable with them floating around like library books sideways on its shelf it's the crust of an angel when it hits the sidewalk outside my house when i jog i hear my footsteps crushing petrified dreams, fossils of hopes men too far too long awayago had for themselves and their sons and wives before soot and loneliness turned sunglasses and roller-coaster yelps into tree-trunks. cause i'm on fire, i'm on _f i r e _, when i think 'future' i think f!ck and it turns up in any case, there's everything to be scared of but what the hell? right, take the good with the atrocity i say, but then again, as always here we sit in our rooms and our couches, in our swimming pools and bent over weeding dead things out of our aging parents' front gardens, we have our suitcases standing upright besides us and packed our toothbrushes and our comfortable pillows and a rain-jacket and we wait and wait and wait and wait and any daysecondmomentago the future's on its way to hug me and whisper into my ear you're here at last and i'll think 'how slow it is to be where you want to be' and someone today asked me so what's your goal where do you wanna get? and i thought, 'well for now if i live through this banana cake i'll be happy enough', and dipped a piece in chocolate; here's my ticket Mr, what platform should i be standing by? who inspects it a moment and says "son there's no destination on this one, you just keep standing by the bus stop on the side of the road out the front of your house, your old house which seems to follow you into every shared apartment room office conference space you visit smiling with teeth made of baywindows dragging by tartan sails a slow laboring ship called history kicking bottles which scatter into a dozen fragments of autumn leaves when you wake up the next morning there are photos lying around a half-filled tea mug and a small plate with crumbs of cake left in it and it smells like sleep when the windows are closed.

or, at least, what i meant to say was,







__