Dancing under the stars w/ the boy of my dreams

Truth is, I’ve never slow-danced with anyone, which is why I wanna be a bride. Sobbing & captivated as you stared into me & sang & played “Night & Day” on piano, then “The Sound of Silence” on guitar. I got real applepiemoonshine-drunk midway into an ‘instant love’-locked-gazes-pupils-dilated-48hrs-straight encounter & we couldn’t part/we never parted. We got real. Deep. Fast.    Thrust-fault eruption the logical progression.   Cavernicolous by my genetic default; my fate settled over me like the brain-buzz of being flogged down w/ nightstick —a God’s Flood of inhibitory neurotransmitters. Then sleep. Wake up. Realize. Coaxed, shoved back to the sleep haze by reality-terrors. Then awoke, TV static via intravenous infusion, running me through the roof. But this can’t be real. Suction portal back to bed-body. No. Then TV static hum becomes blackhole back through the roof. Traffic sparse in early hours on Green St. Must be real. Then further: up through the gaseous atmosphere, up & out & can see dissociated Earth & keep shooting up through blackness to stars. At that point I wasn’t even moving anymore; the blackness rushed past me as I was still. The blackness, nothing, lack thereof: boy of my dreams.

The City I Built

"Psychological projection is a theory in psychology in which humans defend themselves against unpleasant impulses by denying their existence in themselves, while attributing them to others." -Wikipedia

"Psychobabble (n): language that is used by people who talk about mental and emotional problems and that is seen as silly or meaningless : psychological jargon" -Webster

Have I built this City between me & you?
A body, an outfit, coat, scarf, gloves, hat,
a desk, shelves, computer, phone, cubicle,
a maze of cubicles, an office, fluorescent lights above, carpet below,
6 flights up, 6 flights down to ground level, filling the massive expanse of not a
building but a fucking Business Center, surrounded by more just like it
(banks, schools, stores, warehouses, houses, landfills, shelters, churches, malls)
with electrical lines & skyscrapers & jets & planes & satellites tacked to the sky,
a wall of traffic, buses & cars & trains all lugging like a monolithic barge
over the feet & miles of impervious surfaces which mask a convoluted sewage system,
& a conglomerated glut of other structures I can’t think of.
Blue sky, which reflected grey at New Year's on the buildings & clusterfuck
reflects on the rooftops & concrete now
like my mind reflects/projects over top of everything I see:
psychobabble, intense then dispelled feelings, complicating & simplifying
to the point that I truly can never see absolute Truth.
If you even exist (or am I just talking to & praying & pleading at the sky?)
I can never truly see you, God.
Can’t even truly see others, or myself.
I have built this City between me & you.
I have built this City of Denial.