the mourning after daylight savings


that extra hour,

overdrawn from
our common savings

paid biannually
fall and spring escrow.

an automatic
interest free

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

i barely remember
i was tired
i fell back asleep.

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,
and coffeemaker
stopped caring
years ago.

an extension
should be a

the day
indicts me
with accessible
that will
likely be reaped
by either my
the commute.


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'.


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
nights like
that upend
the senses
leaving me
against a
day without
an end.


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?