Dreaming a dream, in a dream on Tuesday morning, in acool bed with half open eyes and sun rays stabbing cheekbones.
"Mister Bruce, Lenny!"
"Yes, what?" The proud American spoke with praise and admiration to the hero in his presence. "I understand," he said, and wishing that he was not one of them (the proud Americans), he tipped his hat off to the brave comedian named Lenny, and cried with ecstasy, "I'm a kike too!"
The hero stands alone in the three-ringed night-time circus smoking a butt. He is looked down upon by the common pedestrians, ignorant, gunshot shooting, beer bottled, slutfucking "Proud Americans."(the question at the end of all U.S. History books is asking if you are a proud American or another orator) The strong thought-minded comic is killing himself because of the insecurities he fails to understand everyone suffers.
Is this like you? The question echoes and thinking fora moment the young man rolls over pulling bed sheets, April fresh, to cover his eyes blinding any ill thoughts.
The ringing of the blue travel alarm clock wakes the young man of nineteen from a dream of circus clowns parading around like brown shirt skin heads. Raising his head up, he slugs sleep drugged feet to the wool carpeted floor. Sweet smells of spring and a bird's chirp floods the brownish-grey bedroom, known to him as a prison. Other than the crime of loneliness, for which time is now being served, there is nothing more he hates than a bird's chirp and the first smells of spring. After a breakfast of coffee and cigarettes he plasters on aqua-net and make-up, the uniform of his generation, and lights another smoke with fragile hands that are accented by long white tipped finger nails.
While descending the cracked, chipped and bird shit soiled concrete steps he shakes his head and shivers with fright of life and its continuation. Waiting for the bus he thinks to himself, public transportation is always early when I'm late, and usually late when I'm early. "It's probably not going to come at all today, I'm on time!" screams, standing on his suburban street corner of prosperity.
Another thought crawling through his mind is that of waking from his dream, the nightmare called life.
"I know all this can't be real, why is there so much pain and hurt and confusion, lack of love and caring? Why are people constantly hating one another, I myself am a victim of this. Where is the guiding hand of hope and truth that reaches out? Why can't I love and be loved and what is it all worth if love and caring are absent? I wish this would all end and I wake to find myself a child again, being held by my mothers arms. I wish this would all end and I wake to shake this gloom feeling!"
From a small black bag tied tightly around his waist he pulls a sharpened, red and silver, army knife. Calmly and cautiously, like a Japanese hari kari act, he precedes to puncture his flesh, searching for a loving heart, a caring breath and a warm soul. As he lays down in his life's red flow ending, the bus passes him without slowing, birds still chirp and the sun remains shining. The morning continues but his dream has ended.