I hear voices -- a cold burble of voices -- too dim and distant to extract meaning, too inexplicable not to inject a rationale, or a slate of reasons: -madness -conspiracy -expectation -the impulse toward void filling minds despise quiet, filling it with puzzling prattle, and making any hash of sound into cryptic natter, until sleep descends
I lie falling asleep —
purple Rorschach blobs
on the black field of my inner eyelids.
The veneer of reality felt thinner,
but my efforts to poke a finger through
shoved me back into the warm, soft reality of my bed.
[I’d so wanted to “Here’s Johnny!” my way into
an alternate dimension.]
And, once more, I’m a prisoner to reflexes
that snatch away subtle worlds.