Nichrysalis

I am work weak on Wednesday in a heap of hangover and hesitation with fingers on a phone haptically actively anticipating feedback— I need that why do I need that. My angst and anxiety is constant and courses and throbs with a pulse that demands concern of a baby boomer crooning poetic in the distance to call me antisocial, or you know, you could just call me. If being this busy in an age of constant communication feels like having slept but not feeling rested, I'd rather cancel my plans like a responsible millennial and go to bed.

I fell asleep with both eyes open under a cloth of slothful calm after I stripped out of my own skin.     I sought asylum with salmon in slalom     of grizzlies' grip. I am a volcanic     yawn short of insomnal salaam. When I preyed on neighborly original sin in networked whorls of grey neural lobes, I fell asleep with both eyes open     to dreams mirrored on spinal columns     and woke to the chorus of a ringtone hymn.     Fighting silence with salmon in slalom, I cradled the phone like a totem, hid it like a corpse under a cushion serially stripped of its own skin.     The phone call was from a mom     infantizing a son; to cou

                                                           coy                                                         ly calm                                                      mom e  nt  s                                                      i   nto br i     e                                                     f     s  l  i p                                                                      s   t                                                            r   e                                                           a  m   s

Voice - Black Noise i hear █████████ my name ███████████ the ████ damn thing is █████ one thing ██████████████ i'm ██████ tired of ████████ ███████████ the ████████████

I don't wait for Tomorrow morning. Kites are sheathed In moth ball plastic, Unanchored To reels and wrists, Breezes and drafts. Attic musk Wafted through The lived-in rooms When the kites Are retrieved In the early evening. On the backyard patio Kites daubed with Finger-grime Are constructed From kits. Moth-nibbled fabric Is stretched over A spinal framework, Tinker-toy sticks And hexagonal- Holed spools. Porous, the kites Are acutely aware of The barometer's breath; I handle the mast And sails like steering Wheels in a skid When a breeze propels A kite and I towards Patio steps, expediting A passerby parent

                                                           coy                                                         ly calm                                                      mom e  nt  s                                                      i   nto br i     e                                                     f     s  l  i p                                                                      s   t                                                            r   e                                                           a  m   s

          The streets were accommodating strangers. Commuters proceeded by the station entrance, guided by markings on the ground. Two men held distinct thoughts about the people and the things around them. They were strangers passing in the street whose two separate glances had met, nodding to the other. The brief, disconnected exchange of ideas was inimitable.           They parted from each other, leaving for their man-made trains.           David,       

The lyrics of my favorite songs have me hopeful for sleep and the text from my favorite authors lies to me at the time of night when the view from the aisle seat has never been so dismal as has been seen from a matching twin mattress eavesdropping on a guestroom closet. The sleep-inducing moves I have taught myself in my bedroom don’t help here where wicker porch furniture and wicker bed pillows coexist. My aspirations to be someone to talk to in the morning with a kitchen table between us don’t fade. My eyelids don’t fall; my sleep doesn’t come. I think in memories at this time of twilight, but not anything relevant,

I don’t believe in beliefs; I believe in cycles instead to toss and turn into wisdom, live and learn from, until then: everything is a learning experience and comes with a subtext that if I can get through this, it won’t be forever. When the lyrics of my favorite songs won’t let me get some dream sleep I feel comfortable with the beats in my head syncopating my heart that someone might compliment, I like your rhythm. When the beat drops, And when it drops off, I will listen for the melody of the memory, remembering it doesn’t matter to me if others can hear the happiness. It’s all inside me and I’ll stil