When I was in college, going to bed before 3 a.m. was rare, even if I needed to be in class first thing in the morning. One night, I worked straight through, one term paper flowing into another and into another still. I went to school, dropped them all off, and went back home to sleep it off. (I got A's on all three, mostly though the well-hones skill of making it sound like I know what I'm talking about whether I actually do or not.) This poem was written about such a time of day, when mind and body are given over to a state of being above--or below, if more appropriate or entertaining--what the light of day might bring.
Tonight the theories
of why or why not we
are or are not stand
out demonic and ghostly
against heads who talk
about where it all leads
without ever saying what
it is while I try to recall
people's names by
the shapes of their mouths.
It's frightening--more
creepy than teeth clattering
down an assembly line
could ever be--to stand
under a sky so big that
madness is inevitable,
even tasty, in a world
gone ashtray. And I crave
accordance with all,
desperate release, a
sudden flash of eyes
to stop the hours from
dancing to dead. But I know
that ain't likely. So give me
new blood minus gore--
give me more dark like
this when importance
seems unlikely; when I
know that I'm real because
I can cause pain.
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