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Sleep, I got something for you.

July 16, 2011

What is it that’s in this saltwater air? This moist, summer linen that sweeps through my town.

It does something to me, for my whole life so far, to get my mind going berzerk and not let it lie down.

What will I have to do to please sleep, to get it to visit for a few hours per day?

If I ponder a ponder at what sleep might be, might she come over to me for a stay?

It’s the two of us, sleep, right here and right now, bright, clear and with light on the the who, why, and how.

What if you’re a spell? A daily sorcerer’s recipe that repeatedly, incessantly avoids and gets the best of me?

What if that spell comes from a place that controls us? That works us like puppets? Like Muppets? Toy soldiers?

What if you, sleep, are a cloud of invisible instruction sent by some force to save SOME from miserable destruction?

Without you, it’s clear that things just can’t go on. Your justice made my brain stop again and my eyes are propped open. Like when cops drop a rock on a propped perp they’re groping.

It’s like you know, and you reward those who earn your company. Your billboard is blank when you collect your blood money.

Isn’t it?

Because you don’t advertise.

What if you are a sickness that man takes upon him, between dusk and dawn then again with a yawn if he doesn’t drink coffee or snort something strong?

What if that sickness has no cure, neither pure nor unpure, because a man like me can’t lure you for sure. My demur for your style makes my best vision blur, expected from a man who isn’t sure you’re a visitor.

I didn’t ask to be born, and shant ask to die, and I live like a water-bug, swimming in your eye.

Sleep, are you a drug dealer that stays way back from the road, flushing minions down your toilet to mend what you sold, to give gold to the lives that you righteously stole? Are you just an asshole who gets off on the role?

Whatever you are, I’m tired of your shit. I’m tired of your game of exclusivity. Be elusive. It’s conclusive. This panel has met and decided that the groupies you’ve excited will be failures, impaled on the drug you provided.

I might not make it long without you, a bastard I’ve never really known, but I’ll die knowing that your blasted cover is blown.


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