I wake up sometimes standing in front of the open fridge with a dream my moth to the fire that turns on just for me when I open the door I'm not full, not hungry just a belt notch tighter and hammered into the linoleum by my toe nails.
I want to run from the light cutting through the window from long dead stars and the slowly blinking night eye that stares, stares down at me like God asking questions I cannot answer
Sometimes I rock to sleep in the cradle of murmur and motion from the Japanese brain bomb (civilization plays with fire) but I wake with a start to a meaning- less quiet outside
Call it what you will: dreamsleeping, walksleeping, sleepwalking, riding and biting the bullet with my name on it speeding past the dream before the mosquito net ripping shockwave behind catches, breaks and blooms, impact before arrival
Every night I stagger alone through crowded dreams drunk on the promise of a hangover (deep, dark sleep) and by day my sleepy hand picks life and love like lint from a pocket corner.
-Karl Adam