The chop-patter of paltry tropes,
the steep ladder of untied ropes
of snake rungs, these rattlesnakes
I climb, elastic slither, whether
venom enters punctures and fang milk
mixes into ruby bisque or not
my blood soup still numbs the tongue
dumb and clumsy; nimble butcher
of teeth cleaver shaves the stubble
of alphabet shadow which obscures
the literal explicit.
I figure the box springs of my bed
nest leathern-diamond coils.
Anacondas wait to squeeze in sleep.
Insomnia is a symptom of cowardice
my stomach, yellower than jaundice,
eyes wide awake to cheat my hands of dreams,
too humble like a nun to gamble.
I used to think that I was mental.
Now I know I'm just an asshole.
I, eggs of feelings broke, am weasel,
yolk-faced lord of empty shells.
I am a beast I try to hide from,
making mirror-reunions awkward.
If dreams are broken mirrors of our days,
reflecting bits scattered by logical cracks
like dipsy-dots of light from disco ball
then let good luck tuck me in,
wrap around like midnight boa,
constricting self from self by amnesia of sleep.
