I throw your questions behind me like bread crumbs.
Although I have no intention in finding my way with them.
I am amazed at the patience to twiddle my thumbs
Growing those lost and leftover thoughts in my head.

I feel the muscles flex behind my eyes as I move them right and left
Suddenly I'm still in the dreams from last night soundly drunkly sleeping
Ah, ha: I'm the dreamer but in each dream, a guest.
That subconscious sending coded signals of what awake he thinks I'm missing.

Why can't we speak the same language? I can read, string together words; mend what some had tore.
Not internally produced motion pictures that so many times lose vital chapters.
Later the 15 second gap between open eyes and two feet on wooden floors
Sometimes becomes the only time to recollect the main characters here and thereafter.

More time passes and I step outside my door to see weather I never prepare myself for.
So many people check the weekly predictions on phones and local stations.
I walk through the fog, I recall a glimpse of a nonsense dream from deadweight nights before.
Feeling cold mist against my skin is happily one of the most familiar sensations.
Never a new revelation. That's only the speechlessness accompanying flashbacks.
Those flashbacks from shallow, followed by deep sleep.
Wondering if my most remote subconscious will ever introduce himself to me.
Maybe another, a half, the unseen core of the awake me? Is he always there, does he use my eyes to see?

He has to. It is the lens he uses to make those short films that I am lucky enough to wholly remember.
And when I see each frame by frame I leave the plot dismembered.
I play it backwards and forwards, and I get into yet another speechless fender ******.
To which I once again surrender. Leaving so much lost and left to render.
Wondering if to these mysteries I will forever be a contender.
Wondering what was in that letter I didn't write but sent her.
Wondering if I will ever finish some dreams and be the great avenger.
Maybe I'll settle for being frozen in the sweeter frames forever.

I could give a speech to thank my army for following me to victory.
I could get stuck in the one where I was in a textbook for world history.
For a moment today, I wanted to take a day dream with me.
Keep me company.
I am not my dreams, well, except those times I want to be.
I just wonder why some dreams come back, and some will never revisit me.
Sometimes if I could go to sleep to the same perfect dream, I could sleep much more easily.

Facing daily nightly unknowns; I see the cold hard irony
That the person who edits and and draws it all from the bones
Is the producer with whom I share the reflection I see.
It is me.
Interesting how hard speechlessness is tied to the need,
To understand an idea so you can finally speak--

Sleepless and speechless.

I'm glad my pencils can always take flight.

Because I am always speechless when I sit down to write.

vii.x.xii