POEM: Hypnagogic Voices

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:
-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

POEM: Hypnagogia

I lie falling asleep —
purple Rorschach blobs
& unforming
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.