Transcending Sleep

I lived in the century of dreams.


Many times I’d empty glass bottles of poison

In an attempt to shelter myself

From the demanding realism of

The Sandman’s nocturnal artistry.


But inevitably he would appear,

And when he did

He lulled me with lucid memories of them.

Surrounded in an aura of illuminating stars

We would be laughing, and dancing, and crying,

Pushing forth ideas of eternity.


And finally, when he knew I could not escape my slumber,

The voices would become echos,

Merely shadows evaporating back into the cosmos.

The now singular entity, was to be tortured.

Submerged in a screaming dead silence.


By the time the acidic mist had raged through

My conscious,

Leaving a bleeding wound of toxic vision,

My body would achingly breathe,

And my inflamed eyes would gradually widen.


Knowledge that the conclusions in world of the carcass,

Mirrored the conclusions in the world of the horror,

Left me with only the truth that it was going to come again,

In both versions of reality.  


So therefore,

Throughout all hours

I continued to live in the century of dreams.


A Vase of Flowers

To the audience

A vase of flowers

Emit mystique, artistry, and elegance;


But cut,


Are weeping,


And fluent in silence.


So The Soul


The soul felt love, but got nothing back, so sun set, and faded to black.

The soul was broken, too much to mend, so with the flame, it’s fragments end.  

The soul felt weary, too ached for breath, so in the end, it lay with Death.

Perhaps it’s one of those moments-

One of those infrequently weighted moments.


One of those rare unimaginable eternities

Flooding the space between

Request and remark.


Where Language moves into a psychosis state.

In which time suspends,

And the unspeaking speak unspoken

Through glass eyes that stare into the frozen car window.


So maybe it’s collapsing,

So maybe it’s conceiving-


Discovering divinity or

Repeating pattern.


Perhaps it’s one of those moments-

One of those pivotal moments...







Or perhaps it’s just one of those static silences

That consumes revelation.

Just one of those memorable minutes

Torturing a glimmering Hope

into strapped submission.




Maybe perhaps, it’s even less than that...


Less than the value of a six dollar admission ticket

Spent at one of those stunted snuffed stages.


Where at the end of the show,

The curtain has drawn,

The lights have audibly grumbled to illumination,

And the act performed in a dusty, forgotten theater

Has evaporated.


Perhaps the moment