Low Expectations

This is what happens when dreams don’t come true:
when the world is flung and flipped off it’s keel
and the oars are lost to the current
and the water’s too pin-prickly to swim
and your muscles seize and you sink like a rock...
and no one can hear you scream because they too,
have become so disenchanted
that they’ve cut themselves off,
deafening themselves—protecting themselves
from the real world.
And they go on long enough until
they forget how to be human.
This was true when I was growing up
but I was young enough and naive enough
to believe that things would change
to believe that my buying power would improve,
and that would make all the difference.
I hadn’t read The Great Gatsby at that point.
It seemed obvious that things would get better. That’s what all these Hollywood stories taught us—
I bought into it.
Now, we’re all just a little bit older,
and a little bit colder,
still writing-off others like we always have—
and lack the integrity to communicate
even when it’s the right thing to do—
like maybe reach out, when something really big happens:
Like when Dana gasses up his Low Expectations
and steams full throttle,
bow pointed toward the middle of the Atlantic Ocean,
and he pushes forward until the gas tank’s dry;
at which point he puts a bullet through his skull—
and the Canadian Mounties find him less than a week later,
drifting... twelve miles off the coast of Nova Scotia.
Maybe that’s something I shouldn’t have to find out about,
through a fucking Google alert.
Ten months later.
Maybe those are details I shouldn’t have to learn
by filing a Freedom of Information request
with the Cumberland County Sheriff,
because everyone is too spineless and thoughtless
to talk about it.
Suicide is a dirty word when you’re living in paradise—
“Out of Sight/Out of Mind” is the status quo.

This is what happens when dreams don’t come true:
the dreams of a generation that were told they were special,
not realizing that their specialness was temporary
until the next generation came,
and then they were special too,
and we were just old.
But passing on the idea, from one generation to the next,
as if it’ll one day, actually make some future generation special,
—for realsie real special—not that fake sort of special like we were—. wouldn’t that be something...
But what am I complaining for,
I’m screaming into deaf ears.
Like the ears of those cowards, back in 2013
That drove me to nearly want throw myself off the GW,
but I didn’t have the balls—so instead I went back to school,
to be measured in letter-grade.
It was a self-improvement step,
that somehow made me feel like a failure,
like I was giving up on something.
Or the ears of my first roommates, back in 2003— that drove me to abandon my first apartment, destroy my credit, and deplete my assets...
almost forcing me to move back to Maine—
with my tail between my legs—
proving everyone right: that I couldn’t make it in the big city.
But I weighed the pros and cons and decided that
I’d rather die than leave New York.

This is what happens when dreams don’t come true:
Your child Drops Dead because his fucking dentist forgets to sterilize the inside of his mouth—
before pulling a wisdom tooth—Accidents happen—even when they’re not supposed to.
The people you love go away
and you watch their life fade
from their blackened bodies—Bodies beat to shit
because they didn't take care of themselves
in their younger years
and you regret ever loving them to begin with—
or ever connecting with them at all—
And you cut yourself off from everyone
and everything that reminds you of them—
Every restaurant, museum, film that makes your heart ache and your eyes well up.
You’ll never hear Graceland the same way again.
The moment they’re gone you know:
your life will never be the same
because you lost someone who kept that spark lit,
who kept life in balance and on that desperately needed—even keel—
And so I try to communicate, and create, and explain that
creation makes all of this shit bearable,
and that it shouldn’t always be about the money.
“Maybe create art because you have something to say, don’t worry about the paycheck, it’ll come some other day.”
—But my song is lost to the noise—
No one cares about the art, or the craft—
as long as they’ve got their selfie
with the latest digital camera, taken from the downtown heliport,
so their friends know they get paid, to work with the latest gear.
We live in a world of broken dreams—
long ripped apart at the seams—
I’m screaming into deaf ears...
The ears of people
who can’t even accept a compliment from me
—because everyone’s got an angle—
so I must too!
But the truth is, I don’t have an angle
I just want to talk to you about writing,
‘cause I hear you’re a poet too.
But then I guess that makes me the enemy,
because there’s not enough room for the both of us,
even though we’ve got something totally different to say—
fiat money is finite, and can only go one way—
What’s it matter anyway—deaf ears!
The deaf ears of those who will never read my books,
never watch my films,
never ask why I keep a penny minted in 1987
on my home desk, and my work desk—
the deaf ears of those lost in their own lives,
and happiness, and misery,
the ears of a crush from yesteryear
who posts a picture of her newborn baby
and you realize: mother nature is fickle bitch.
The ears of everyone who thinks me a traitor
for moving to New York, with a vision for my future,
who made fun of me for having the idea
of living in all these grand neighborhoods
with their stores, restaurants,
high above the Central Park Pine Oaks,
only to wind up in a studio,
right around the corner from where Eric Garner got choked—
And somehow the city’s still got me hooked.
Brick and mortar has never looked as good, as it does in New York.
But that’s not to say there isn’t a downside to this thing,
or that there isn’t always a feeling of safety some evenings,
not physical safety—that getting jacked sorta safety,
but knowing your local bodega
won’t try to take advantage of you
if they sense you’re a little out of it—off your game—
But it’s still better than that other thing:
living among everyone else—
dealing with the reality—
that their dreams haven’t come true—
refusing to realize that:
If we work together, all our dreams could come true,
but we’re all too selfish and deaf to give a f*ck anymore,
not just about others, but about ourselves too—
So we stop being:
sensible, open-minded and ripe with vision.
Instead we vote like we drive,
casting ballots with emotion and anger
oblivious to the consequences
and electing Misery
cause that’s what we always do.