sigh,
that extra hour,
overdrawn from
our common savings
paid biannually
into
fall and spring escrow.
an automatic
interest free
deposit;
comfort
and collective
sighs of ‘thank god,
more time.
as alarms buzz
and threaten
to steal silence,
as you push down
into your pillow
to reap 60
more minutes
spent in bed,
as you burrow
and bury
the oncoming
under dream,
this is
the moment
that later
some one will
say
i barely remember
i was tired
so
i fell back asleep.
this
light beholding
made dull
and consumed
without reverie,
this is
sleight of hand.
we know time
is scarce
and that
bothers me.
past or present,
even my
devices arrive
on the shores
of a new day
before me.
my clocks
reset themselves.
the stove,
microwave
and coffeemaker
stopped caring
years ago.
an extension
should be a
blessing.
instead
the day
indicts me
with accessible
energy
that will
likely be reaped
later
by either my
employer
or
the commute.
sleep
canto
I have high expectations for poetry to spark some light, to wake me up enough so I can sleep at night. Then to feed me and others. To reveal subtle secrets and bothers. To scour out the remains of the day. To be grey. The pen, paper, growl, the games, the time, the noticing of my scowl are all parts of the same approach. The fight for fetching far flung alliterative comparisons begins as eyes open and continues like longitudinal lines throughout my waking hours. And like those perpetually bending lines, my rhymes rarely end. My brain taps out multi-verses of multiverses and only stop once the weight of the day snaps my lids shut. Honestly, I usually have had enough by noon. Or the good stuff has run out sooner. And even though some of my process is compulsive and explosive and sometimes just for show- the only thing that really stops this deal, is when my hand feels, without doubt, that I am giving the world one more counterfeit to wonder about and convinces my pen to stop and say 'no'.
soma
nights like
that, when
the line
between awake
and sleep
never breaks,
the comfort
of comforters
can’t take
me across
the curt
eternity of
blurred reality.
before dawn
stares back
at me
i hold my
third coffee
and stir
in the disturbed
slurry of a
morning that
will only
follow
restlessly.
nights like
that upend
the senses
leaving me
defenceless
against a
day without
an end.
anemoia
i used to wish i was a person that could lounge in bed at daybreak resting waking soft focused half closed not quit but almost imagining the temperature just outside the shell of my duvet. i would conjure an image of aimlessly reaching out into the room probing feeling extrasensing the clicks and spurts of a house waking. i'd listen to others recount their lucid love affairs with morning slow stretched surreal cocooning against 11 12 1 oclock notifications and i'd ask myself- do i enjoy sleep or waking up more?
words keep wolves at bay 