dreams gone awry

Perhaps the moment when we are most conscious of our breathing, no trickling light, no bodily urges, no ring-a-ling-ling-ling-clang bang crunch of the clock, dragging us from the never more so comfortable feather filled 100,000 thread count embrace, with the elastic moment before we are the dancing, flying, laughing, running, chisel chinned protagonists of somnambulist legends. There have been times, I am sad to admit, that I would have given up the most tender lover ever to be found in my little black book for"just five more minutes, ok?"...

When that protean state slides us into our day, shower, brush, eat, dress, drive, work, sit, naked, only to remember a deep lack of coffee... How come when I stumble back asleep I never have coffee in that super imposed simulacrum of my morning.

I could drown or walk in this liminal state. My hand creeps to the demilitarized zone between the cold morning air and the velvet lined iron curtain that makes up the edge of my bed. Fingers crawl out, sucking in consciousness though the pads, filtered by my swirls, cross overs, islands, ridges, deltas, and pores. Digits claw at that reality, but I am not sure that this isn't just another 24 line stanza by Mr. Poe, or if indeed the tentacular cephalopod embrace of Morpheus slipping away... one... acetabulum... at... a... time...

Breathe in-breathe out-breathe in... as walking one tentative step at a time, being the bravest first person out on the ice that just formed over so so recently a time. Transparent in spaces where awake and slumber go back and forth: Guard! Turn! Parry! Dodge! Spin!

Thrust! No time to call back that purple cloak to enshroud anyone. One eye peels open at a time now.

The battering ram of morning light ripping though the Vitreous Humours to awaken the memory of waking.

This remembering of sleep becomes the neon welcome mat or or maybe it becomes the missing "no solicitors" sign which rings out as dinner bell to the starving workman that carry in the day. The day as dust on

boots, which is stomped out and free on the foyer of my consciousness. Too late now. With only the crumbs on an empty plate as an indexical mark of floating in

that penumbral state between waking and sleeping. am

I awake. am i Awake. am i awake.