dirt on the welcome mat

Tag Archives: sleep

you can have too much
water,
showers
swallows
sheer expression.
your glass,
hold or hide it,
gathers
this earth glue
between
your hands.
think about it
sometimes
just before
drip-dropping
down to sleep.
then swim in
the overflow,
don’t try to
keep the deep.


I dozed in your stomach,
Now you sleep in mine.
My slumber was as restless
As the kids
On flight 682,
But I feel turbulence
As you smile in deep sleep
At parasitic dreams
Pirouetting through.


Wake me up

With a solo on pink rubber band strings,

Sing softly a Jamaican hymn,

Rub your cool gold rings

Across my forehead

And splash stained glass

Colors across my toes.

Gently dip me in life,

Dye me beautiful.


I’ll never forget how faithfully

You tucked me in with burlap,

Wrapped ice packs around my toes,

And placed a heavy green glass

Of bubbly mud by my bedside.

You read aloud half a manual

On gears and car parts,

Threatened me with a test,

Then turned on the light

And said,

”Sleep might hit you in the head

With a sledgehammer,

Share the bedbugs

With the monsters in your closet.”


Driving in the dark,

Dreaming for the houses

With their nightlights on the outside,

Window blinds tugged

Like  sleep masks firmly in place,

And dewy blankets pushed back

Just a little by

Each carport’s concrete fingers.

The car radio sings a loud lullaby

And I think

Being awake must mean 

Living more than one life.


Buttons spin

On the ceiling-

You’re feeling

A plastic dizziness,

Bleached threads

Dangle their knotted strands

Into each of your ears,

Inching slowly through

The grooves of the brain

And expanding

As your thoughts sweat,

Sending sweater fuzz

Bouncing colorful

Behind bright eyes

Until lids droop

Warm and heavy.


We love
to be reminded
of the enemies we’ve killed
so walls are filled
with trophies
and crudely scratched out
signatures
that certify each victory,
we frame what we call art.

Fire,
mostly still confined,
is scented, colored,
and circled with glass,
mischievous children
and their parents
snuff out wicks with fingertips
or blow away numbered flames
on birthdays.

Dark
is where
we’re comfortable,
hunched over and grunting,
we make our way
each night
to the same hole
to neither see
nor think.