I love OD'ing on sunlight when I wake up
grab some OJ and go lay in the soft grass, and tell the birds to carry on
their light conversations and noisy chitchat above my closed eyes
open head - delve into me
the grass probably itches if I pay attention, but who cares
I can't restrain my limbs any longer
no more hanging in limbo with excuse of pain and no gain
I can't remember why I'm naked but
I always feel naked around you
I've always been naked under these clothes

My brain is dashing ahead, though I stop and gaze inward and upward
The trees could be mocking me, but they're probably just as happy to be themselves as I am
so I follow suit and reach up to ask for mutual attraction from the sky
and we start a new day
time to function
back to the grind
my gears shift and the grey leaks back into my veins
time to function
(but once you've overdosed on daylight, you're never the same)

I used to love this time of day
the sacred “Golden Hour”
—when the sun’s last dimming rays
casts down, kissing its earthly
lovers a long, slow, thoughtful
Goodnight.

I used to love this time of day
when simple sunshine
smiled at me and I back,
laughing in its
reluctantly cooling embrace
thinking of the joys of right
now—the carefree remembrances
of yesterday—and the excitement
of tomorrow.

Now—I hate this time of day.
its fleeting light taunting
Me with what I can
and what I can’t do
with the remnants of what’s left.

Now I hate this time of day
when the sun’s heartless rays abandon
me…again.
Another day past.
Another day gone.
Did today matter? The sun yells
as it drifts and turns, dancing towards the
inescapable, daunting darkness…
Did you make it?

angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.

Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk.

In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing.

I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything.

I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in.

Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.