"Today is not the day"

         Today is not the day to go digging up old dreams in vast dismal mountains covered with snow. Nor the day to go revising lost ideals in primitive remote cemeteries. Today is not the day to wait at local bus stops, between scattered raindrops, beneath darkened clouds, going ruthlessly gawking at naive adolescent schoolgirls, amidst city clocks monotonously ticking to endless noons, approaching luminous dusk and fluorescent moons.
             A residential-alarm-clock-radio rests aside midnight drapery, our souls adjacently hang from damp smoky curtains, piling cigarette ash, and lampshades in furnished windows, carpet scenery encloses sandy-eyed-dreams, of lost-derivative-phonetically-challenged-home-schooled children. Through faded peepholes of time and forbidden lust, the clutch of velvet scenery looms deep progressive prerogatives. Pupils and schoolteachers in an underground labyrinth of forgotten trains and abandoned penny-arcades.
             Unraveling-neighborhood-telephone-wire stretches tight around the urban outskirts, between factory buildings,while below,  the scavenging food-stamp natives cling to cheap livelihoods, in an inescapable puzzling maze. Pale awakenings of decaying agriculture at the township pavilion, aligned with rotting infrastructure. I've learned accumulated lessons in state institutions, where multitudinous evanescent windows lie between thick brick of concrete mortar. Tumultuous, the symmetrical courtyard wall resounds machinist vibrations, leveled out through the remote echoing and screeching of regional tramcars.
              Today is not the day to place love and desire on a towering pungent pedestal. Nor the day to weep over delicate poignant fantasies, or surreal realities of complacent satisfaction. Today is not the day to go seeking unfathomable rainbows of unkempt legacies and unfeasible myths, misplaced upon the translucent shelves of centuries.
             The evening continues to transpire upon rupturing streets of disheveled barrooms, the roaring and clinking of pint glasses, creates a fluctuating wall of sound that drips with stale beer, frustration, and perspiration. In the forthcoming night, angry pigeons scuttle between silent gutters, aware of their surroundings and an underlying theme: whatever wakes and dreams must die, in the perverse lucidity of tranquil indigo, and youth less geraniums.