good morning to you

i woke up

with a carpet burned back

and memories from world war ii—

what an awful war world war ii

was, I exhale with my grandmother’s

faraway look of nostalgia for

how bad everything

was. different times, she whispers

to herself.

three alarms set in intervals

of four minutes

allow for insightful discoveries

in the endless exploration of damp and dark caves

that make up the past—

mine, or hers or his and theirs or ours.

and here in these caves

my touch is like mida’s

but everything here is behind glass walls

like my dear aunt’s china collection

that sits uselessly in her dining room,

purposefully placed for continuous lusting.

another one rings,

and i am still searching for a thesis

to link his how did I get away

with that and my

giggleless manifesta to an audience

with watches on their left wrists

and the paragraph in the world briefing

from the congo yesterday

in addition to the summary of the continuance

of settlements freckling the cheek

of a one day Palestinian state

of peace.

snooze once more because

the leaves outside smiled the other day

in a variety of oranges

and now they are dancing—

twirling without gravity

above tussled hair and hands on hats

and their twister spins

don’t need a partner to lead

or a caller to call—

they just tuck and dive

spin and grin,

i bet they even close their eyes.

pathetic fallacy

strikes again as another alarm

enters my half dreamed dance floor in the

sky and i wonder if i am sad because i

miss him—

or these sudden

flashback to the war and sport’s

letters from japan where he

would have died if we

hadn’t bombed hiroshima,

my mother told me once. so many people

died there, i sigh.

racing the on call clocks

I squeeze my eyes shut

like bulldozers knocking over intricately

doodled caves where lights suddenly

go out. I didn’t even do a roll call this

time, didn’t even check to see if bodies

remain,

like those Chilean miners.

I wonder what they thought about—

in all that darkness for all those days.

feet up, for the future awaits;

sneakily it slips through my veins into

a history i will try to write down

tomorrow morning upon the beeping

of my first alarm

and sum up with very conclusive thoughts in the fat part of the

triangle in my conclusion paragraph--

instead of an inside treasure map of

a web, a maze, a veritable labyrinth

a coast with an infinite length,

a cave with too many contours

making too many shadows--

simple sentences

that makes sense

to me.

dls