sleep is a ******. it recoils when the moon and the night conspire.
it shuns slumber like a timebomb on a porch.
sleep ticks like a phantom with Tourettes...

we are not familiar.

in the wee hours, I am disconnected
from trivia. attached to the hull of a great force
surging through the aqueous chasms
of my insomnia.
like a butterfly the size of a classical harp
clapping in the dark
Almighty,

I don’t
often surrender
but when I do, I win.
I give up and go
all in.
I take the risk -
out for a
stroll.
I linger where
I fall
in

magic is a real thing… it has no bones but
all the moons in a nebulous symmetry.
we swim in things we can’t correct.
and yet, there lies the bloom of our -
Infinite Jest.

magic is a real thing… sleeping on the floor
with the cold sparkles and marsh marionettes
glowing in the farthest thing from practically Nothing.
Like a Boss.

we go where the real things **** us and return with fresh hells
to feather our nested resurrections in the face of a Comedy.
so magic is a real thing, sleeping with Strangers
an opulent soliloquy of unexpected
surrenders.

magic is a real thing… but the ***** of our Narcissus
daunts the pavillions of our introspection. our numerous harmonies.
so real we had habits.
And that is.

my imperial darkness is so bright
it knows how many lights
to take away.

how many moons to forge
in a black kiln on
an Autumn day.

how many thorns to invite
to a crown…

in a throne room
made of

no rooms.

and an Always.

i keep losing things.
i keep finding out
things are gone.
i'm a perfect hole
in a pocket.
whatever that means
and double it.