FURTHER HYPNOPOMPIC REVELATIONS

We wake late

Like all

Sojourners

Into the already

Deepening fray

A country at war

With ideas

Which induce it

To explode

Those

That would do

The same

We wake late

Like all

Sojourners

Dislocated

By history

And devoid

Of land, of what

Can we call

The root

Of this waking?

The body beside us?

The rent waiting

To be paid?

The work to be done

In the district

We can’t afford

To live, to where

Would this waking

Allege us

And who deem

Us the bearer

Of the where

And how

Could we really

Say it was ours?

ξ


Again awoken

By the exterminator

His ear punched

By a diamond

My hair jutting

Tangential

To what thought

Seems to course

And return

The axons that

Writhe and conduct

These figures

Into their dim

Recognitions

The fire the myelin

Yields into form

As the silent waves

Of shock shake

Sleep from thought

Flinging amiss

Or caught in the traffic

Of expectation

Which is itself a form

Of belief, often

I have brought my hand

To my face only

To find briars of hair

And what man

Doesn’t but constantly

Find himself

A beast?