What if you fall asleep with words and questions jammed in your head like a subway station platform packed with people pushing, they board the train, full and full, car after car, full with words and questions, the doors close you see it coming this train the words and questions jammed in your head like a subway station train, as you go down to that place, that tunnel of sleep, of dark, of teeming life in the night, you see it coming, that light like a light on a subway train, know it’s going to ride inside all night packed with people jammed like words and questions. You sleep knowing it will ride inside. You fall asleep hoping it will leave some trace before morning.
What if you wake up with what ifs on your lips, you realize inside, all night, writing has been going on. Fingers on keyboards, hands on pens, chisels on rock, chalk on pavement. You realize your insides are covered with graffiti, some of it so fucking beautiful that you take that hand that comes with a morning’s waking, you take that hand that wrote all night, trace the images that cover your insides, trace them down, feel their breadth, feel their coursing. You weep with some beauty for a time, don’t need to go where it’s not so beautiful, some of it so beautiful you don’t need to look any further. What if you wake up and you realize inside, all night, someone has been painting. You wake up searching for a way to turn yourself inside out, inside out, that’s all, just inside out.
12~2008 or earlier