A City You Only Go to In Your Dreams

A car drops you off
At a place
Where four roads
Meet

It sounds Grecian, doesn't it?

Oedipal

And since this is a matter
Pertaining to fate
I suppose it's appropriate

A traffic light hangs above your head
With all sides brightly glowing red

If you travel in any direction
You're going to meet
Another version
Of yourself

The uptown version will be an academic version
Who spends hours
In an apartment
At a typewriter
In a library-ish room
That should operate as a kitchen
But instead of food
The cupboards are filled
With books
With ugly covers
Because that's how you know
This version of yourself
Is academic

This you reads books
With ugly covers

If you travel downtown
You'll meet a much cooler version of yourself
That listens to music without words
And poetry without rhymes
And wears glasses that aren't prescriptive
And would never consider sleeping with anyone
Who smells good

This is the downtown you
And this you is dirty
Unwashed
Shaggy

You don't like this you

You contemplate going east
But in the east is a you
At a cocktail party
With very boring people
With boring speaking patterns

One of those parties
Where there's a dull hum of conversation
Happening at all moments
Proving nothing interesting
Is being discussed

It sounds like cows mooing
Lambs and goats
Just meandering
Sipping strong drinks
And eating only things
That can fit snugly
On a cracker

Your east side you is standing in a corner
Cornered (pun, yes, pun) by an older gentleman
Mooing about how pamphlets
Are the new books
As if pamphlets are a new thing
And not recognizing that a pamphlet
Is sort of a book anyway

The east side you doesn't look like someone
You'd want to stand beside
At a party
Or anywhere else

That just leaves the west side you
Renovating a building
Paint cans and tarp everywhere
Broken floorboards
And lamps with no lampshades

You're unsettled by this you
But you sit down on a dusty old armchair
Because you're exhausted
By the possibilities
Of who you could be
And frankly
You need a break

Jazz music plays from a stereo somewhere
On the second floor
Of the rundown house
And the west side you
Runs back and forth
With a broom
With a brush
With a dustpan

This you is working harder
Than the north side, south side, east side you
But you sort of...like this you

This you seems happier
Busier, more filled with--

Oh, I don't know--purpose

This life
The one you're looking at
Seems to have meaning

You don't know why

Obviously there's more to it
Than a broken down house
In a neighborhood
That seems mostly quiet
Aside from the corner store
That always seems to have people
Sitting out in its parking lot
Laughing about something

You sit in the big dusty armchair
And you wait to wake up
Because you know
You will
Wake up

This is a city that doesn't exist
At least, not outside of your dreams

It's a city you created
And yet it's filled with so many scenarios
You would not like to find yourself in

So many things you're afraid of

Because whereas other people
Might fear clowns and Santa
And serial killers

You only fear a life
Where you're trapped
On one side of town
And can't seem to make your way
Out of it

Out of the possibilities
That seem to end with isolation
Or put-on identity
Or starvation
Because really
How much can you actually fit
On a cracker?

But this life
This west end life
Seems endurable
Enjoyable, even
With the jazz music
And the sawdust
And the unopened bottle of wine
Next to the chair
You're sitting in

So for now
This will do

This will be acceptable

Until you wake up that is
And find out
Just which road
You ran down