There are days when we rise zombie-like
sweating out Seattle’s winter
dark chilly razorbladed damp
with spiritual hangovers sludged
among the nooks of our idiot-shaped mouths
sidling down crooked-footed like a drunken hurricane
to the Five Point Cafe for Midwest-inspired biscuits
that chortle like dragons beneath milk-and-sausage gravy
molten lava oozing down into our inescapable bellies.
Days when hourglass mist smears the faces of trees
hovers in the window like an apparition
shrouding brains, suffocating plans
pouring itself hot coffee and sitting down
in the chair opposite
surveying us over the jeweled rims of spectacles.
Days when Jurassic tree-trunks
are outside rooted like stone spires
in an earth both maiden and crone
hooked in steadfast as organic angels.
Days when the locomotive realization flattens us
the recurring non-dream that we can hardly cope
with the world so modern and impersonal and isolated and empty
spiders dancing madly on the bitter concrete of our systems
alarm clocks with eyes and legs and deadlines.
Days spent in a place of hushed desperation
waiting rooms tick tick tick
heads falling forward then snapping back
snores that rattle the foundations of skyscrapers
toppling domino-like as we discover
we thought we needed something we didn’t
in order to get something we thought we wanted
that in the end we had no use for.