156)
I have a question,
and the question is simple.
Is it naive to be optimistic,
or is it foolish to be hopeful
in hopeless times?
I wonder . . .
I ask this honestly
and openly, and maybe
I ask this almost childishly,
because
maybe the idea of being hopeful
is a childish thing—or maybe not.
I don’t know.
Yet, I am amongst the masses
each and every day.
I see people all day long
walking in The Big City,
each person looks or sees
the world from their own perspective
and they come from their own
perspective places, towns,
and everyone has their own story
for better or for worse,
richer or poorer
until death do us part.
Everyone has their own life,
and their own opinion,
and here we are in The Big City.
living in a sea of millions
where each face
holds their own secrets,
and each life
has its own tragedies, successes,
and sentiments,
and everyone encounters
their own moments of serendipity,
and yes, everyone you see
has their own dreams, catastrophes,
and I look around at this
and I wonder—maybe it’s me.
You know?
I wonder if anyone else wonders
or sees, or thinks, or notices the look
on someone’s face
and as they do,
I wonder if the person who notices
looks deeper and traces their intensity
with interest and curiosity,
and says to themself, hey,
I wonder what that person
is thinking?
Am I a cynic?
Am I too critical?
Am I too much of an overthinker?
Or maybe no—
maybe I am too passionate
or a dreamer,
or maybe my world is colored and laced
with the traces of imperfection,
and therefore, I look around
and look to find beauty in
places
that may otherwise seem darker
or grim, which I understand
some people might point
or look
or tell me that I am too sad to save—but hey,
that’s okay.
I don’t mind.
Maybe I am a hard case
or maybe to me,
my version of pessimism
is only an awareness of realism
which is subjective, I get it . . .
and so, this could be
none other than an awareness
that I have lived a certain way
for way too long
and now,
maybe,
in the simplest way — maybe now
I am only looking to add color
or to add the vividness of life
and yes, this is life.
My life –
and I want it back.
157)
Do you ever look at someone
and remember them
in a moment from a different time
and you remember them
at a different place,
both figuratively and literally,
and you look at them
and you remember them
in a different outfit,
and you think to yourself
I wish I could go
back to there,
just once.
I say to hell
with those who tell me
that there is no Christmas
or that there is no Santa Claus
and I say to hell
with those who tell me
stop dreaming,
or stop thinking
because why not tell me
stop breathing because, to me,
it’s the same thing.
See?
This is me in all my glory
or splendor,
breathing and bleeding
naked and all.
I am the undone sum
of a figurative logic;
whereas the child in me
is screaming within because
he and I both
understand what it means
to go without.
And me?
I ask the stars for patience.
I say this is going to take time
to adjust to the changes
that take place.
The game is the same
the streets are different
and so are the players,
but I get it
Just give me a little more time.
Please?
158)
I look around at my so-called space
and I look around
at the seas of people
walking around The Big City
and I see how the span of culture
goes from the poor
or the homeless, to the rich
and the loveless.
To be fair . . .
I used to want to be rich,
which is not to say
that I wouldn’t mind
the extra income.
At the same time,
I would be fine to be poor
and fine to live in my little place
and do my own thing, the way I am,
because in my life
and in the span of time
that spreads from my early beginning
to the moment
I opened my eyes
and yes,
I can say that I have met my share
of miserable millionaires
and I have seen people,
humble and simple,
and their smile was unstoppable.
This is what I want,
more than anything.
That’s how I want to be –
happy
unstoppable
humble and simple.
So long to your Rolex castles
or your Cartier nightmares
or your casual Friday’s
I think
I could use me some time away
from all the rah, rah,
and all the hustles and scams
or the robo-callers
and I could use an escape
from the telemarketers
and I could use a break from
this, and the true fictions,
the false reality,
and simply put . . .
I could use a lounge chair
sitting beneath the sun
below a clear blue sky,
watching a yellow airplane
fly overhead
and, at the same time,
I would not wonder
about the plane or its destination
because I would be destined
to be where I was
right behind 100 Lincoln Road,
Miami Beach
and feeling the sun
while sipping from my pina colada
(a virgin of course)
and thinking, ah,
this is exactly how life
is supposed to be.
The Written Addiction 