Everything is chance. We name the random to create the idea of order and predictability. It's a stab in the abyss.

What is choice? Plinko. Go, pick the arbitrary with stars in your eyes. What you want is only an arm's-length away. Scratch the ticket. Feel the neon in the night wheel like time is in your corner. Let it hurt you. Learn.

the tree limb
crawls up and out
tangent into
the stuttering cool air

I sleep so. *******. much. It's pathetic, really. I've many theories as to why: I'm lazy; I'm not being challenged enough; society is, well, society; I'm a misanthrope; I'm a dreamer.. But, in the end, these all miss the mark.

The impetus behind my sleepmoresleep is, it seems, a direct result of that sentimental urge to bring order to a cosmic court whose very fabric is made of change and chance.

buds waiting
limbs feeling, again
slumber shook off
but this tilt too will end
and bring the wilt back

Start again. Turn the page. We love our metaphors. Why? Because they remind us of the flux. Things won't stay still. Ever. Dictionaries breathe too you know. New glyphs itch to get in.

Let them.

rosette of jag leaf rawr
bright yellow flower
head of seed and
a mane of downy tuft
reaching through
neglected suburb
concrete sidewalks