Awake, warrior
who struggles; my dreams
spill over into consciousness,

The memory of a non-event has
me struck down with its realness,
Lists of hyponyms, this life hypnotic.

The moon forgives me for the issues
I did battle with;
The Oneiroi, Morpheus and Phantasos.

This 'wake oneironaut did not pause
to ponder at the gates
of horn and ivory.

Another night, another story,
Another set of moments, spent
in the prime time of our lives.
So why has it been meaningless
and less to me, plain to see in
my more recent writings (dare I
declare them poetries, dare I
pronounce modernity worthy).
It's so unclear to a fool waiting
to fall in love, a fool wondering

will it ever catch up, a fool who stopped
chasing the world, too concerned he was
with this fixation upon our conduits, the singularity of whichever connection we're living through. Each generation
lost to their own wondrous iteration of
this eldritch transhumanity.

We are watching the clouds
bandage an incarnadine sky,

we are practicing our best knots,
weaving an army of tourniquets,

we are slow-dancing
barefoot on the edge
of a razor.

We are watching
a demolition derby
in the driving rain,

the smell of motor oil
mixing with gasoline,

the hard melancholy
of dying machines.

We are waltzing from room to room,
smearing our names on the floor,

we are keeping time to slow music,
bleeding out behind closed doors.