WHEN YOU WAKE
When you wake, you break quickly into method from
sleep. Surely, you’ve learned all the lessons by now.
Your life started with a clean music. Now it’s forced
to polish in fog, just listening. In billions of atoms,
your life is but painful behavior, but your time is yours
again. The holidays have exhausted our lives by
fulfilling them. We didn’t buy time, time bought us.
THE NAMES OF COATS YOU NEED ARE ONE
Your head pops and whoa you realize that it’s all your
behavior so perfectly adapted like a dancer hidden in
motion or like a modest tourist from Scandinavia. You
observe you’re having trouble talking about yourself.
You kick and scratch at parts and find the mystery
fragments that lead you to your art, fragments that
glow and yearn for combination nothing fancy to
waste attention, only emotion. Luckily, you thought
of putting everything in a larger box but when the box
washed up on the beach its contents were lost to the
understanding ocean. So now you wear goggles.
I’m on a rusty bridge crossing the river,
cartoon hope in head. Then what follows is a
train of unsaid things that thump the hollow
of the empty room with a light left on all
week. I left it on to see if anyone watches
from far across the canyon where I sleep.