untitled in nyc

transition to a reality that’s been there
for more revolutions than this atom can take
buried, crammed into that oh-so-tight constraint
on friendly conversation or whatever the hell else
perhaps on life.

transition to a future that’s anxiously waiting
I could keep it going in my pocket but it wants out of my mind
I can’t wear this hindering conscience much longer
when its obstacle to my desires blocks any hope for self-realisation
perhaps for living.

transition to a requiem, or maybe a hallelujah, needing to happen
occurrences of questions that lack answers thus so far
rhythm tells me of realistic outcomes
words tell me of unashamed brash hunger for change
perhaps in spirit.

transition to a outerworldly existence
where my politics don’t interfere with my struggle to stay sober
on utopian idealism
where my dreams are unfettered by closed windows
perhaps by limits.