In the middle of the night, you wake up.

From a soft, half-life of dreaming you are delivered into a dark sort of consciousness.
Your eyelids stretch and press back against the black but your pupils find nothing to hold onto.
Soon the black opens into flowered, transient designs of light remembered.
You touch your face. It is there.
Somewhere, a Danger begins.
You hear its slow, padded beat...like footsteps approaching.
The lightswitch is a million miles away.

this drawing has digestive issues

journal nightscene

Two Men are Talking at the Mall

Our biggest problem is that we have to chase after them.
The trick is to know: you’ll get her eventually.
Then you do and she’s just there-
wanting you to be honest
but honesty’s a prick with a big fat knife and trust is shredded lettuce.
So I tell her that I’m lonely
and I’m controlling my body.
my crooked crotch. my blunderbuss.
Then one day she makes her taco with shredded lettuce.
I tell her: “You little bitch, that smells so good.”
…her face looks old, then...a scrunched up paper bag…like she just smelled something foul
and it was you. I mean me.
So much for honesty.

You see those mannequins? I’ve got one at home
in the hall closet with all my vacuum attachments.
Of all the air-breathing ones, none is more adaptive than this one.
The mouth moves in and out.
You are free to choose your level of contentment.
After awhile,
the struggle stops.