CYCLES
The construction of definitions
never ends.
Please help me define myself.
I have been silent for years.
I am on the earth. Nothing has ever happened.
I am waking from my pre-birth
dream.
An artist sitting at the edge of
a bed
staring at a pair of work boots.
The television is a drunkard full
of sleep.
Silent alarms sound endlessly.
There is a blackness
oozing from the eyes of dreamers.
It creates a puddle called waking
which the sun dries into rubber.
The planet rolls.
Somewhere it is dark
and people are dreaming.
Coffee is a black ooze.
So is the setting sun.
These words are preparing for
storage
under a recycled moon,
an awesome dichotomy of light.
