Caffeine, caffeine-
Synaptic stimuli. My
Cerebral companion:
at home in a cup of coffee.
Yet only partially fulfilled,
Wanting-longing.
Waiting anxiously
for your chance to
massage my medulla,
tickle my neurons.
Watch them vibrate in
your vicinity - until
firing *******
at your temptuous touch
until finally the sun reappears,
and sleep is once again
a possibility

Sleep, Sleep.
Psychic Respite.
To feel myself sinking blissfully
into your cloudlike embrace
Oh! Sweet slumber.
You whisperer of healing
dreams.

I received my official
(unofficial)
unsolicited
free of charge
diagnosis today. From a stranger
on a bus.
Seems I lack balance,
everything in perfect portions
salty and sweet
wet and dry
meaning and irreverence
acceptable and perverse
a place of equilibrium and symmetry.
I find this state - unsurprising
Painfully predictable
transitory
a beacon for chaos.
Disorder only exists
against the theoretical backdrop
of order.
Nature unrepentantly marches towards
disorder
chaos
unbalance
asymmetry.
To hold balance, one must
shut the mind - close the soul
to new ideas and experiences.
Lest the delicate state
of transition be undone. Completed.
Balance is just a wobbling bubble.
driven aimlessly by currents of air.
Until the sphere inevitably - pops.
Entropy prevails,
We already knew it would.
always has,
always will.
Chaos snacks on tasty morsels of order.
Like little hor de' ourves
served on a shiny tray
at an impromptu soiree
universally,
eternally.

Hijacked by the snooze button
stolen minutes slip into my sleep
to feed the dream furnace.
Consciousness struggles to surface
like a moth trapped in cold molasses.
First muttering - then SCREAMING
into the hazy space between
waking and sleeping - "Wake Up!"
subconscious philosopher stubbornly
attempts to unify all the
random baggage and jack-n-the-box
questions, into one patchwork epic.
Broadcast at the speed of thought-
in full Technicolor and 3-d surround sound.
Seeking clarity in the realm of abstraction.
Unable to interrupt - the adult self
tries to subvert with subtle
whispers of: closely persuing
clocks ticking in triple time,
floating on a sirloin raft through
piranha infested waters
towards some cold, crushing
waterfall grave.
Success sees the door open slightly.
A single arrow is loosed into
the thin rectangle of light.
Striking deep and true,
"You're LATE!"
The panic button neatly impaled
bleeds a banshee choir of sirens.
Shrieking all systems into action.
Dreams evaporate, instantly
turned to dust.
(only to resettle unnoticed
into forgotten corners)
Ashamed, the maestro
frantically conducts the
(somewhat abbreviated)
rituals of morning,
while thumbing through a
well worn book of excuses.
Is the **** coffee ready yet?