Seth LeBlanc

In my search of the American dream I have slipped into the American reality. The true intention. ?of whom. describe it, the dream. It’s there. The lighter flick, the sip of something stored in oak. The haze from back before yesterday, if only to step back into. The American dream. That tastes like something momma’s momma made. Back before yesterday, the flick and pops and stains happening in the microwave. American reality. Revolving.

There’s a swelling stomach at the end of the hallway bursting with promise, it’s full of shit. An American dream, it’s nostalgic. The way a dog might chase its tail, a centrifuge. Pinching off reality like a bad dream. A bad dream, it’s happening again. Like breakfast for lunch, the way a dog might have it.

A dirty guy with a face. At a gas station, ?you got any change. I got twenty dollars to my name. Then a pack of cigarettes and something in a brown bag. The cash register chings and all I have is coins and a dollar. The American dream, trapped between the gas station and my truck. Something dirty, revolving back towards me. Towards the door. Staring. The change on his face, in his eyes. In his hands metallic presidents and two joes. From his palm. A lighter flick, for him and me. An American exchange, dreams and reality.

Internalize society. The way you play the Sims or Monopoly or Legos. The American reality. Dream about it. Real people do what we play. What we pay for, it’s called real life. And you better grow up real quick mister.

Call and talk to your relatives who are sick and dying or afflicted with alzheimer’s. Don’t just forget about them, don’t just empathize with them like a tootsie pop. Like how many liquors does it take till your liver looks like a tootsie roll. Like pop, like its in the microwave, being reheated. The American dream, stained in empathy. Understanding, the American reality. Underlying, the real condition. Recognizing your relatives. Lying, you’ll call them soon. Lying, there in a casket looking like a fish. Because one day, the world is gonna pass you by. Your whole life is going to be an American dream.

I wake up in the day and feel like breakfast for lunch. It’s nostalgic, last night wasn’t it. A haze. A hobo and a tootsie pop. Out on the porch. Telling me what to do like the American dream, like crunch. Swallowing me up like American reality television of the united world of America. In a state. Like there’s sand castles in a haze in bombshells and you’re telling me gas is higher than my gpa. Like seriously. ?Isn’t this the best Sims game yet.

Grandma. You’re a mean ass bitch. And quite lovely to talk to. That punch line….. ?ya knowwhatI’msaying. Literally, that same line that you say after you say some story. When you punch me in the arm, when you say it. ?huh. ?you know what I’m saying. It’s a haze, but you got brass granny. And a glass of wine like one of those restaurant drinks……filled with ice and to the top. You know what I’m saying. It’s like the American
dream.

I can’t go to sleep again because I’ll wake up and be back in American reality. Trapped. Somewhere on a porch, squatting on the cement. There should be a camera here. So we can film it. The American dream. Sitting on the steps, like a commercial. Staring at a radio song, or concrete. Looping back in my head, in a haze. The lighter flick and a sip of something you can clean your wounds with. A punch line. You know what I’m saying.
Something from someone else that goes off again. In your head, in your own voice.

The essence of American reality… and when I say American I really mean the entirety of society… I was going somewhere with this. With this dream. I thee wed. To the united states of determinable plots of land where dear and buffalo roam. Until death do us part. Muah, amen.

I want that new Sims game where you get to create time and gods and stuff. I mean like who wouldn’t want to worship a deity like Superman, or those polytheistic X-Men. ? Could you see it. The American youth, sleeping in. Missing out on church the day Iron Man vanquishes the middle east and its minions. At home watching cartoons of christ on the cross, saving the American dream single handedly. Like grandma. Downstairs in a different room watching reruns. Laughing, ?you know what im saying. A sip and a lighter flick. Cackling like a damn demon. Lit up like a microwave, the American reality. Revolving, back into a dream again by breakfast.

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