The Unholy Hollow

It starts with a cigarette—

A cliché,
Warm between the half-light
Hours that worm like crisp sheets of
Paper sliding, slipping frictionlessly into
My tight spots—
Buffers between the heat haze of wake
And the cool static of sleep,
To line the head drawers in my
Gray upstairs kitchen;
And keep the silverware from sticking.
(It still sticks)

I doubt that sleep and wake
Exist as separate vessels
For the hydraulic of my consciousness—
The awareness that wanders ghostlike,
Dancing unseen and unhindered
Through the thin cracked plaster walls
Of being.

What tenuous membranes these are
That separate me from
The lurching steam machine of secret flesh
And the illusory Gestalt of human holiness.

When the divider
Like an overworked muscle—
When I
My accordion
One solid,
Sour note
That pours
All of me into one drinkable glass—

Sleep becomes wake
And the pneumatic pumping rhythm
Of flesh is a full-immersion baptism,
And the silverware sticks—

I stick,
And loathe that I am only this;
I am the unholy hollow
And my cigarette is done.

This might well be gobbledygook. I really don’t know; haven’t slept in some time. I haven’t written a poem for a much longer time.

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