From my sleep I start, alerted
to the noise of something blurted
by some stranger at the bottom of the stairs.
Reluctantly, I rise from bed
and blink – This dream is not yet dead!-
its embers flicker in the cavern of my sight.
I lock the door to my bedroom,
and hope that sleep finds me soon –
Dreaming is such a dear delight and
I’d rather a dream than a rightful fight.


You can’t grow roses in a snowglobe,
you can’t grow anything in that
cheap confetti,
and you can’t pretend you’re outside in the sun,
and you can’t escape your regrets,
when you’re locked in a room for two months or more and
there are sounds in the walls and screams at the door and
the world is flooding and burning and worse and
you’re just sitting at home,
plinking seeds in fake earth.


The dishes are never really done and
the dusting, that too needs time plus
you can’t forget to eat again and
call your mother, don’t forget to
go pick up some eggs and milk and
bread, we’re out of bread, and there are
weeds growing in the gutters, got to clean those next and
someone’s gotta snake the drain and we
aren’t made of money, so that someone is –
oh, oh, and you’ve got to read, don’t forget to read
and work, or else we aren’t eating plus
I know you like games, and music, and laughter,
and movies, and all sorts of other things we don’t have time for.

Unnatural State

In the scope of a thousand years or,
even less, perhaps two hundred,
it becomes clear that the natural state of a human is
An eternity of darkness.
A spark;
back to darkness.
It is not unusual to suppose, then,
that if you are reading this you are yourself in
an unnatural state,
a supersaturated solution in the moment of crystallization.
Perhaps this is why everything feels charged and
changing, why we yearn for
a home we don’t know, why we seek and seek and seek
without knowing the object we’ve lost;
we’ve lost nothing, and
we are seeking nowhere.



How ravenous is the sunshine
that must eat the night each day?
How hungry are the earthly beasts
that howl the stars away?

We claim that evil surely lurks
in the dark beneath the stars;
perhaps at night all we see is
sunlight’s festered scars.

The Nightmare

No ghouls or drowning,
no fire, no ice,
no thin and twitching spider-legs
no fish-hooks through the eyes;
my nightmare is the same as
an egg cracked every dawn,
the morning cup of coffee,
the same motions – on, and on;
my nightmare stretches to the past
until memory recedes to mist,
my nightmare stretches forward
as dawn greets me with a kiss.