Poem: The process of becoming awake in a hotel

Submerged--

Not even a hair above,

Lines interlocked

Running grids of electricity

Through one's spine

Outside one's chest

Glitch out, coming to be

Visceral, unrelenting,

Compressed, unreal, and

Unkind.

Why doesn't one

Simply

Find

Why

Not

Nevermind?

Why emerge

To be left at the edges of a wood,

A field and a row of pines?

A voice in the wind

Whispering unintelligible signs

Leaving one further

And further

Behind.

No stove on

No moon up

No room behind the panels on the road

Where the houses seemed to be

No way to turn the tv off

No more light

But red light

In another's eyes

No one reading

But a book to write

Wake

From the dream

Where one's fingers

Were sieves for time

One and a graveyard

Modern child

One as imposter

Of their early mind

Spin a good tale

Mimic archetype

Failed maneuvers

Crooked spine

This is, sorry, two fucks given

And a lamenting whine

One was just about

To ask again

This is, sorry, one fuck given

And one shut eye

No recognition

No space for another to lie

This is, say, nothing another forgives

This is

A hostage situation

This is a lullaby?

This is the devil versus some door

Versus your indistinct neighbor

Versus the cobwebs in the skull

Where you store yours

And I store mine

This is the transition

From the incoherent to the unfamiliar

The process of becoming awake in a hotel

This is the row of pines.

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