John The Bastard Wonders What It Means To Be Awake

I would not call this being awake.

I can see the trash on the curb where I stacked it last night,
the fanblades are coating me in hot but moving air,
I’m hungry, the coffee came out pretty decent for once,
but I’m still not sure anyone would say
this is waking life

for I’m not yet free of last night’s dreams,
or even the ones from the day before;
I still feel the laughter of the circle of flashing men,
hear the vulgar songs, the blade of the guillotine
whistling down along its path of rough wood.
The silver warrior birds and the dolls with cracked faces
may not be visible, but I feel them in the room.

If this is being awake,
conscious
in this world and of this world,

I will return to sleep at once
and face what waits there,
get it truly over with

or learn that world
and live there.

Something must happen soon
to hook me into the present,

or I will not leave the shadows
today.