sleep fragments

The Falls

do not purify; it is pure
do not defile; it is pure
do not change; it changes


I hate the winter because it’s cold. I hate the cold because it hurts.
I feel lonesome because I am alone. I feel what I am.
I know it before I feel it.
Do you
know it?
feel it?

Plover's Trip

Look ma
in the mouth of the cosmic crocodile each tooth is the arm of a spiral galaxy
each grain of sand's a grain of sand each a beach of grains of sand man
call me the bird of the universe along for the ride on the edge man
open never close man

Driving Thru

Smashed turtles on the highway
Five dollar foot long
God in the trunk


RIP Ursula Le Guin

she was a hero. a very important person to exist. she inched me away from misanthropy and toward, well, feminism at least. so sad she will never write another word. my favorite author.

from "The Writer on, and at, Her Work"

Long ago when I was Ursula

writing, but not “the writer,”

and not very plural yet,

and worked with the owls not the sparrows,

being young, scribbling at midnight:

I came to a place

where the road turned  and divided,

it seemed like, 

going different ways, 

I was lost. 

I didn’t know which way. 

It looked like one roadsign said To Town 

and the other didn’t say anything. 

So I took the way that didn’t say. 

I followed 


“I don’t care,” I said, 


“I don’t care if nobody ever reads it! 

I’m going this way.” 

And I found myself 

in the dark forest, in silence. 

You maybe have to find yourself, 


in the dark forest. 

Anyhow, I did then. And still now, 

always. At the bad time. 

When you find the hidden catch 

in the secret drawer 

behind the false panel 

inside the concealed compartment 

in the desk in the attic 

of the house in the dark forest, 

and press the spring firmly, 

a door flies open to reveal 

a bundle of old letters, 

and in one of them 

is a map

of the forest 

that you drew yourself

before you ever went there.

         The Writer At Her Work:

I see her walking

on a path through a pathless forest,

or a maze, a labyrinth.

As she walks she spins,

and the fine thread falls behind her

following her way,


where she is going, where she has gone.

Teling the story.

The line, the thread of voice,

the sentences saying the way.

         The Writer On Her Work:

I see her, too, I see her

lying on it.

Lying, in the morning early,

rather uncomfortable.

Trying to convince herself

that it’s a bed of roses,

a bed of laurels,

or an innerspring mattress,

or anyhow a futon.

But she keeps twitching.

There’s a lump, she says.

There’s something

like a rock—like a lentil—

I can’t sleep.

There’s something

the size of a split pea

that I haven’t written.

That I haven’t written right.

 I can’t sleep. 

She gets up 

and writes it. 

Her work 

is never done.


Death Waits

Death waits.

Death is bored.

Death is tapping his bony fingers on the table (obsidian inlay probably).

Death sighs.

Death unlocks his phone, and likes God's selfie (where is She, the Golden Gate?).

Death thinks, What am I here for. My work is automated. In every system, degradation, death and decay are embedded, subtly and efficiently, in the clickbaits, in the duckfaces in the gangbangs. The personal touch, the craft, they're gone. My father would be ashamed to see how things have turned out, if he were alive today.

Death gets a notification on his Apple Watch, Junko Takahashi.

Death says aloud, Finally, then sits up straight, closes his eyes, opens his mind, his black robe becomes everywhere endless as his atoms turn inside out through the folds of space time to meet Junko on the way.


life grew legs                i see an ad
and trampled life             on every surface
the world is dead             i see them
the apple of knowledge rots   written in the sky

i try to sleep                how to keep your teeth white
i killed my friends           now i know i must

to the, through the           i sell my life
something, with the           to buy it back
forest, trees                 i know its worth this way
baby, bathwater               i click to live
victor, spoils                i like and in return am liked


the picture of beauty, or The Mere Object

when i was young, my mother kept a picture of a beautiful woman hung up on the wall above the bed. it was just a decoration to her, something pretty. but to me it was a window into a dream. i asked her, Who is that lady, and she said, She's nobody sweet baby girl, just a beautiful picture, isn't it lovely? she said It, i remember that. She, It, the woman on the wall, white and thin and pleased with her power. She looked like she lived in the sky.

i grew up staring at Her thoughtlessly, just taking Her in, as i lay on the dirty carpet and watched the dust rise up as i rolled in the sun coming through the window. i was alone most of the time back then, but somehow it felt like She was alone with me. She melted into my thoughts, when i looked in the mirror and saw Her on the wall opposite and myself reflected back. it was as if She said, See me, see me, see me, see me, until She filled the frame, until there was no room left for my dark and ugly face.

i grew to hate myself, and it took me a long time to see how that related to being seen.

now that i'm older, older than Her, older than my mother when she died, i think back on them with sadness. my mother, blanker than canvas, failed to make anything beautiful in her entire life, herself and myself included. and She, or It, or she, or it, The Mere Object, nearly degraded me to its level. objects can be beautiful; many are created by mankind--and mankind alone--for that purpose. but i am not an object, i was not then, i never will be, and i forever reject the obscuring veneer of beauty.


pop song

the wind obscures something.
the distance you keep
must be heavy to carry
drop it and come to me
you never reveal the stars thru the rain

do not hide your whole life.
your whole life is as light as the wind
it's heavy now
so let go and come to me
you never reveal the scars thru the pain

bridges fall
and are built again
canyons collapse
and rise again

you're running away tonight.
the wind is at your back
i am behind you calling
i cannot see you
i do not know how
you always conceal the stars thru the rain