Heavy weighs the death
Of childlike ideals
Their hollow corpses rotted
With severed wrists

The media says “tell no one”
Sleepwalk through reality

I cannot want
I cannot lust
For faces
In a world of masks

I don't wanna do this
sleepwalk dance anymore.

I want to sit
in the gutters with you,
and sing.

I want you to kiss me clean.

Because I love the way
you love me.

Clamber from bed sheets,
tangled. Catch her
tight. Hold her
safe. Curl up with her
in the soft grey light
of almost-day.

Camping; facing the wind.
Feeling all too safe; sleepwalking
                                    (now and then)
There's something to be said about a foundation.
(a strong one)
and there's something to be said about a dedication
to a flimsy one.
A road trip or an expedition?
A day dream or a premonition?
Take baby steps (toward big steps)
Take what you want (need) from this and (life) everything.
Smirk and scoff when you're smirked (and/or) scoffed.
Biting your tongue (off) now;
not sleeping at all somehow.
Coffee brain like a crack ******* flame.
                                       (do not condone)
Unwind your sanity to keep hunkered down
in what is real and more full-heartedly genuine
than any other known human experience.
(live)
        (die)
               (get read about)

Dithering sleepwalk

Another year gone
And still I languish,
Drinking in memory before it dies.

Attending to dreams,
Neglecting the house,
Leaving the garden to butterflies.

Sleep is quite hopeless.
I am a scarecrow,
Standing stock still, with buttons for eyes.

Haunted by nightmares,
The road without rest,
Searching for you to undo goodbyes.

Dithering sleepwalk,
Past the dull wasteland,  
Lost, but still eager to fantasize.

Leaving no traces,
Frozen winds blowing,
I cherish the dream, despite the lies.

My hopeless yearning,
Hits fading echoes
On distant peaks and never survives.

I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.

What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,

leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?

I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.

My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.

Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.

Moon hour

Waking up,
the streets are with so empty
it's hard to believe night
could hold the moon so delicately
in its hand, detached,
like a mirror.

The mirror while we sleep
gathers the mountains up
and waters the thirsty dreams
of thistles
blowing in the moon breeze
the moon aloft
yolked to night forever,
neither dejected nor happy
it wanders its light through
its milk on the ground.


Sleepwalk**

Your mother in a sleepwalk began searching in the leftovers
of what lay in her mind for the three things she had misplaced.

A ring of keys or a wooden bowl, an appointment not written down,
a door not closed.

There she is descending the stairs, opening drawers and pulling
back curtains until her father wakes her, asking

"What is it your looking for?" And leads her back to her room,
where the future resumes and she is telling this story to a child.

Patience is a virtue
well, I'm not a virtuous girl
The seconds drag like hours
till you're back in my world
Sleepwalk my day through mundane things,
socks and locks and chicken wings

Want to set a plan in action
you're such a beautiful distraction

My mind races to future dreams
in my brain a movie streams
future times, undone crimes
unspoken signs and movie lines
Want to make the clock tick faster
not afraid of this disaster

Want to set a plan in action
you're such a beautiful distraction

An hour passes, then two more
my heart imagines whats in store
One day gone and then another
wonder if you'll like my mother?
My feet never touch the ground
I'm screaming but I make no sound

Want to set a plan in action
you're such a beautiful distraction

Heart open to all possibilities
only held back my abilities
to please you, tease you
hold you,  squeeze you
Hoping you'll return the favor
time with you is what I savor
thrill me, fill me
tempt me, **** me

Want to set this plan in action
Oh, you're such a beautiful distraction

I come from a place
Where reality's a dream
We sleepwalk awake
Silent are the screams

Uncertainty is certain
Lies are absolute
Destruction just creates
The vital and minute

Consciously unaware
Of our intended mistakes
Reminded to forget
That giving only takes

I come from a place
Where eyes never see
Through the mists of illusion
Surrounding you and me

I awake to the midnight morning

of sleepwalking



the thumping of my soul deep in the

morning twilight



children slumber under their

dark covers as I emerge



from dreams of hope and despair

under my bittersweet tongue



their slumber

and mine



expectant and hopeful

anxiety ridden in our own way



blessed am I to unfold

during the AM hours



of morning radio

cold floors and



oil black

coffee of the watchman’s variety



alive to hear my strange thoughts

and my children safe but for a moment



as I sleepwalk

in darkness

you rise before the morning does, watch the black
sky go gray through the shower curtain
lacy shadows cast on summer-night skin
not ready to awaken, blue eyes half-mast to
squint away the fluorescent intrusion as your
mother butters toast for you that you leave behind,
your stomach sleeping too.

yawning, you thank god that the possums are
exercising better judgment as you hold
the wheel at eight and four, shake your knees
at every stoplight, sing billy joel top-volume
to stay alert while the clouds go pink and gold.

you join the real-world almost right away,
asleep before you hit the tracks at westport
tickets tickets tickets grabs your ear, but only just.

your coffee cools in its thermos, forgotten in the
new haven line haze, your nerves all perked up
fighting with the fog between your ears. your nerves
all perked up. your nerves all perked up. you try to
kick the fog to no avail. you all but sleepwalk
down the platform, you barely watch the gap.

hey, wouldn’t it be crazy if he came your dream-voice
whispers to your conscious yes it would be crazy your
conscious chuckles at the thought.

you trip on the overweight businessman’s pennyloafer
and you think how much you need to *** and you toss
your cold bagel in the all aboard trash can and you
think about how crazy you would be to hope to see him
and you hope your backpack isn’t slowing traffic too
much and your nerves all perked up your nerves all
perked up and you shake away the fog one last time and
you get to the end of the long hot platform and you—

hey wouldn’t it be crazy if but yes he’s
there and yes you
don’t know
what to
say but
yes your
eyes wide yes
mouth open
yes you don’t
know what
to say but

*hi,
I love you,
yes

As it is in the flesh and bones
  of every man and woman
    and child
and the name and blood
  of every god
as it is within every heart beat
  of every dream
the sting and weight
  and beauty of life
is the essence that makes
  all things mortal
nothing is eternal
  as even forevers
    have their end
and as we breath
  and die
    and dream
from one existence
  into another
we lose and find ourselves
  in and out of time
and as we sleepwalk through
  the skull of death
   and the womb of life
we catch a glimpse of that
  which lives within
  and outside of all
that which defies time and decay
  and in an unending song
  and single thread
we see everything
  is connected
   by love

... on the darkened edge, no voices heard that I recall.
Slipping around the house in some slumber, part awake,
level one asleep... I shuffle wander.

sleep evades any hope of repair as another morning will
arrive new and fare.

a large mug of coffee fill, as I shake off the softened chill..
when will I find the proper pill? ("Coffee, ah, will be
the morning's demand reward".)

Sleep is a dream evading my time. It sits in circles
of the mind. circles I chase and wish to capture paste on
the wall.
Whereas I could unclinch the cliff preventing my
fall.  Never falling with surmount insistence, instead,
standing at attention of all life's varied assistance.

Tired, not as I exist in this zombie state, sleepy eyes
still closed sleep's gate. Exhausted, drained and
mentally lame. My body screams in pain and vain.

Rest is a flight. HE avoids my night.  t.v. channels,
meditation, infomercials, revelations. Try to wish
away the wake, and start to fall... into the hush...
slowly slush.... sleep a must.... BOOM! the bell of
conscious sends a scatter to sleepwalk nausea.

Pills prescribed for these ills, none for me do their will.
Wishing day to stumble an hour's nod. Dawning sun...
again in quicksand's mandate trod.

After the day's work, the canopy of stars
sheltering our heads, tell me a story
as you sit down to do your washing;
The night has now fallen silent, now
tell me Senora, stories, of bygone times,
of heroes and kings, of sagas of valour
and of the denizens of the forests,
wolves and lions, and of ancient wells.
I wonder in awe, when  you lift the stone
pestle down. Here's mine a heroine own.
It is cold, and the fires warm our souls,
woolen caps too, and the flickering lamps.
Now put me to sleep by your side, on
the charpoy:  I hear the wind sleepwalk,
jingling her silver anklets in the thin air,
when I wake up in the dead, as crickets
rustle, and shadows talk, to count my
blessings that you are still by my side.

I was so tired that I fell asleep with my jacket and jeans on
Fever spiked, woke up at 3 AM sharp
Drenched in a cold sweat and clammy to the touch
A night terror that returned me to childhood with its hallucinations
Starts with the distortion of size through warped dimensions
The knowledge required to become a skilled piano player
So vast that it expands and fills the room around me
I am crushed and suffocated, claustrophobic in the company of giants
My thoughts erupt
Someone saying something somewhere
Shaking, sweating
Even silence shouts at me I can’t control anything
I watch myself as I move in fast-forward, possessed
Voices in my head blast lunatic symphonies
Even the air around me swells to dangerous proportions
Can’t sit still, dying, I am alone and become a spirit
The physical realm long ago abandoned me on a stranger’s doorstep
Condemned to be a psychotic loner in a post-apocalyptic world
Dead and decayed from nuclear holocaust and I as its final freak
Beg for an end to the raving, burning, ringing and crushing forces
A phone call is made to my love and reality anchor
I stutter through my symptoms, regain some control
With her advice I find some calm and sleepwalk downstairs for water
The vending machine is deceased for the night
No favors
Just my luck

I've noticed just how much of our talking waits
until bedtime - as if until then
we have lacked permission to pause
until we've undressed and bundled ourselves
into our duvet time-capsules.

Alas, it’s then
when the competing urgency of sleep rises
and meets our log-jammed thoughts

it’s then when our fight fades,
when our wide meander sprawls,
exhausted of its pungency

And its then
when our ability to cement thoughts
cracks in the face of creeping sleep
rerunning its classic dreams
and rebuilding forgotten worlds
that we’re fated to later abandon in the shudder of dawn,
and the demands of a new day.

And so, we delay any conscious introspection
and leave our contemplations to our advancing Sandman
as we slumber and sleepwalk in his wake.

But tonight I decide to take the back way
with my single bag of groceries buckled in
for dear life with a white receipt fluttering
from between the battlement of butter and bread.

Tonight, the evening will swallow the sun like a pill
without water, as the late night trains sleepwalk through
the city humming, pondering the unanswered question—
ummmmmmmm, umm, umm, umm, ummmmmmmm—

and the mixture of cloud, locomotion, and sky
will remind me of the cannons and the rifles
and the smoke that bounced back and forth, and I couldn’t
have been more sure that someone was going to die out there

on San Jacinto Day

And eventually I will turn within this forest of street—
Hickory, Elm, Oak, Maple, Spruce, Pecan, Cedar—
to see the red capitals of my reflection, crucified
upon a metal grid for every fatigued citizen to see:

MORRISON'S
CORN KITS

with a light on top that pulses and breathes.
And all I can do is picture myself inside, working along
the assembly lines ******* slip-resistant shoes
onto the ankles of Mexican pubescents,

or painting old men’s faces with sweat,
or filling the bags under teachers’ eyes,
or doodling veins on the legs of ladies who
stand standing to stand, and stand all day, they stand.




And I’ll remember how my crying sister screamed
at every loud thing she heard, and how my
mom was like a parrot on her shoulder saying
‘It’s not real, honey. Honey, it’s not real.’

And I’ll watch how the smoke that endlessly vomits
from the stacks wearing the sky like a wig
distorts the fanned out walls like fun-house mirrors,
and dissipates into the night like a long, drawn out, exhale.

the palace of the moment having sold out
of her usual tear soaked apparel
and her casual wear fascination needing a
quick fix lead her across the wastelands the shopping plaza
to this wind-soaked backlot and its hidden wonderland
the store has no sing
just a off green door with the words
only the accursed may leave
she shimmies through the door

he makes his way up endless sidewalk
doing a little dance step every few feet
because he knows that is what a madman
would do in his place
his rags are the best he could muster
but they will serve
to be mad is fashionable
and appearance and substance is everything
he mutter to himself
he walks the rainswept backlot and its blatant ****** factory
and finds a green door with the words
****** your own pretences
he slips inside to gaze with open awe

she keeps her politics in her pocket
the latest soapbox to preach the ******* line from
politics fashionista who dabble in whatever
the latest trend on facebook seems to lend
new age drivel or some bomb throwing **** with
a distrust of anything that might be another point of view
got a real open mind
long as it something she wants to hear
shes occupying the breeze block in the backlot
sitting by a green door with the words
believe in nothing and that's all you'll have
she whimpers at the thought
but she trots in to take a look

he washes the blood off his hands
but it never washes away
don't judge me you aint
seen enough
been enough
known enough
to judge much of anything
sleepwalk through your days
with your  diapers and handbills
inviting to the great change that'll never come
its all just a fashion statement
social tyrants protesting political tyrants
go find your green door
find out if its a lion or lamb

6:00 AM

I wake to the sound of my grandmother's voice announcing the morning long before the first rooster crows to the open countryside. The sun is still in hiding as I dress in the dark, already dreading the day's events. Shuffling through the empty house, as I attempt to force my frizzy hair into some kind of order, before giving up and slinging a backpack over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

6:45 AM

I stumble on the bus, still half asleep, as the havoc of the the night before has kept me from ever allowing my body a reprieve. Constantly moving, yet I still somehow manage to gain weight. I drop into a seat, my ever growing thighs pushing together as I lean against the cold glass of the ***** window, not daring to look out upon what my world has become.

7:30 AM

I amble my way up expansive staircases and through crowded hallways to my locker, tucked away in a tight corner next to the English office, where I find a semicircle of people waiting for me. We mumble our morning greetings then part ways in our minds long before our bodies move in opposite directions.

7:40 AM

The late bell rings, and I ease into a seat near the front of the class as one of my three good teachers begins to animatedly shout about expressing ourselves and setting our minds free and I'm always tempted to ask her how exactly I'm supposed to do that trapped between the four walls of this mighty mind numbing institution. Because even though this school may have been built like a castle, anyone whose read "Rapunzel" knows that a castle is just a prison where they hide away women.

8:25 AM

I leave one of the few decent classes of the day and enter the chaos of the hall where people are screaming and running and kissing one another, human interactions that I never seem to be a part of. I sleepwalk through the dull drone of teacher's voices, as they rant on about the importance of my "education."

10:00 AM

I reach my fourth class, the day is nearly half over, and I try as hard as I can to listen to the women at the front of the class as she expands logarithms on the page, but the numbers fog up my mind and cloud my vision. I start to feel dizzy, like if I see another equation I might faint. So instead I pull out a notebook that's nearly falling apart, and let the thoughts fall from my mind, making much more sense on the page as I scribble my feelings in a desperate attempt to be poetic.

10:50 AM

The moment I step foot into the cool auditorium it seems to get a little easier to breathe. The corner of the school I have carved out for myself as a home has opened up to me for midday drama class, and I smile at the sight of half-painted scenery littering the stage. But still I wonder how my creativity is supposed to flow between these walls, and how I'm supposed to allow my spirit to be lifted when every single scene we play out has been one hundred percent scripted.

12:30 PM

Finally, lunch arrives and I rush to the courtyard, hoping to soak up the social freedom of these forty five minutes as my friend and I ramble about things that matter and things that don't and I never remember any of the conversations but they're still important because they're the only things that make me feel sane.

1:20 PM

I find myself in the third floor chemistry classroom where I will sit for the next hour and a half wondering how I could make my death look like an accident from an untested chemical or crazy bunsen burner reaction.

2:45 PM

The school day draws to a close, but still I stay in the building where my dreams have come to die, slaving away in a poorly lit auditorium, giving my life and soul to the theatre. Not for a chance to be on stage, but to be behind the scenes, weaving together a musical with the smallest of roles, and it doesn't seem to matter how insignificant my job is, because it takes a lot of small people to tell a good story.

5:30 PM

I exit the sanctuary of the theatre and walk to my mother's car. I choke as the cigarette smoke fills my lungs, while we talk about both nothing and everything. I find that this is the best conversation I'll have all day.

6:30 PM

I'm called upstairs for dinner, my grandmother insisting we all eat together while we scramble for polite conversation topics. My angry political disputes and uncensored ideals of the future are not welcome here, so I keep my mouth shut, tugging at strategically placed articles of clothing made to hide the few secrets my body has managed to keep.

9:30 PM

After hours of pointless false conversation and staring at a flickering screen, I jump into the shower, loving the blissful in between state it provides.

10:00 PM

I go to bed, but not to sleep, my phone hidden under the sheets, sending secret messages to my friend across the universe, like whispers in the dark. When I finally shut my eyes, all the insecurities crawl into my mind like little insects of anxiety. My throat closes up and I can't breathe. I feel as though I have been tied down, and I thrash around the bed until I tire myself out and slowly succumb to sleep.

12:00 AM

I dream.

6:00 AM

I am ripped out of the one pure moment in my 24 hour cycle, ****** awake by the sharp sound of my grandmother's voice shouting the time. I get up to repeat this never ending monotony of my everyday life.

the dirt’s turned up, the body’s gone
and the makeshift cross is snapped in two
maybe you should’ve dug the hole a bit deeper
maybe you should’ve made it work

now everything is plastic-wrapped and vacuum-sealed
and all you can smell is germ-x and cheap soap
but it’s better than her perfume
you burned her clothes and lingerie in your backyard
along with her favorite books you didn’t read
— she never asked for anything to be returned

you forgot about her for a while
the words of her eulogy gave you closure
“it’s over”
entwined with clichés and *******
that fertilized your daffodils —
the flowers of new beginnings

but then you saw her corpse
reanimated with Another on her arm
and the laughter that plays in your head
when you can’t sleep at night
spilled from her undead lips

her memory flooded your mind
and gnawed your brain
as you returned to her upturned grave
delirious in a sleepwalk daze
plucking petals from a daffodil

Somewhere between my subconscious and hypnotized reality
I sleepwalk down the memory lanes
Amidst the darkness of a lost cause
I move in circles searching for something I can't remember
Is it the perfection personified or just my memories of you
A soul so pure and a heart so warm
A beauty so rare and eyes so expressive
A touch so caressing and voice so soothing
A fragrance so sedating and a presense so completing
And in the shimmering lights of your glow
I move my tremoring hands just for a touch
For a belief I would trade my chance to be with thousand angels
That you are real
But it was just a shadow I was touching
You vanish like the ripples in the mirage of uncertainty
And I keep following you in circles till eternity

Scuse' me sweet women,
Did you know you put me on the world's shoulders?
Or did you sleepwalk into the situation like me too?
Either way, it's alright we're up here now
And isn't it a lovely view?

Oh and to think about going back down to earth now
.... I couldn't, could you?

It's funny...
I was wading in the water
Not going far at all
Just cruising, as you do...
Until I swan up and out,
And I breathed the air
And I tell ya, I did shout, I did
But I said "Oh hello, um how do you do?"

Zoooooooom!

Next thing, we're traveling half way to the moon!

And it is at this place that I sing to you,
Oh Angel, Oh Dharma!
Is this mortal living or what they call Nirvana?
Alas, it makes no difference to me what is the answer
All that does, I tell you
Angel, Lover, Newfound Owner of my heart whole!
Keep wearing your silver armour,
But remember,
With me by your side,
No sinister soul,
Or a man that means foul,
Could push past my passion to harm ya!

I walk the path alone. Though I am never without company. For the wind and trees sing lullabies; lulling me into a sleepwalk-stupor.
The rain caresses my face like a kind lover. Making everything seem...
But the way is dark and I regret to realise that I cannot see beyond the skeletal frames of those dark boughs. Oh how they whistle mercies unto me, my sweetly singing entourage of thornéd ghouls.
Come, oh stifling Death. You whose omnipresence disturbs my skin and forces it to crawl deeper into the shadows.
Leave me, oh pain. You who I alone have elected my captor. Do not bind me with your mordant roots. Roots nourishing my doubt and uncertainty, indeed utter disbelief in that supposed truth - salvation.
"God save me, guide my steps." I cry aloud this pathetic plea, and then wind answers me; that immaterial half, so quiet - whispers:
"There is no God where you are".

“But maybe your real job is shopping…”

Sleepwalk through stock footage.  Life as
documentary.  Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
**** love songs.  Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing - they all want to
be queens - and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead.  We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.  
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?

We’re motes of dust and stars that sparkle,
We’re cherry trees and busy bees,
We’re rays of light when it gets darker,
We blossom, finely, in the freeze.

We shimmer, warmly, in the void,
Defying odds and making friends.
We build when others are destroying,
We guide you past unlit dead-ends.

We’re rivers winding through the deserts,
We’re oceans, gentlest at the shore.
We are the snow, we are the claret…
When earth is parched, we let it pour.

We are the night, we are the morning,
We are the ticking of the clock.
We are the comfort in the times of mourning,
We are the feathers mild when you sleepwalk.

We are the sky, we are the thunder,
We are the sun, we are the rain.
We put the rapture in the wonder,
We put the slow in the fast lane.

We are the truth, we are the spirit,
We are the numbers and the runes.
…So take your life and boldly live it
While humming all those merry tunes.

the plot of my dying son’s dream includes an alien technology meant to isolate what makes us inhuman.  he is unable to ascertain the holder of such a patent as his disorder wakes him before his time.  I direct his attention to the youtube video of my injury.  it’s the first time I’ve seen myself sleepwalk.  as with all my children, I get his attention by waving the rolled up catalog his mother failed to sell.  I keep it with me at all times and have been caught using it to spy on what I cannot provide.  in the video I look surprisingly fit.  my oldest daughter is sitting on my shoulders and her hair is on fire.  I am running through a sprinkler in a front yard I don’t recognize and am taken at the ankles by some animal the darkness hides.  here the video stops but I’ve heard there are others that go on a bit longer.  when my stepfather was very sick his memory convinced him he had traveled more than once to a foreign land.  the most valuable thing he came back with was his father’s gentle nature which he uses often when guiding me to clear a path for EMS.