In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In the graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams to not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulers.

On day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the  claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge,
or that dead man who possess now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theatres.

During the summer of two-thousand-and-thirteen
many a night I did spend writing poetry
until eventually sunrise would creep up behind me
and I would realize how long I had spent
deliberating on little more than a few lines,
Tweaking their meaning, trying to find
something, a thing in them. Writing,
I aspired to go beyond rhyme,
To reconcile the world with my wanting mind
That searching, in-itself, was sublime;
In the act of poiesis one becomes divine.

Those were some of the best nights of my life,
Always ending with the sounds of the dawn chorus
which would rankle with me as I'd try to drift off
into a content and thickly sleeping state, from which I'd awake
groggily, in the afternoon of the same day.
That summer was my life.

Im all alone in this world
No one to share my tears
My love My pain
I have all these secrets
Parts no one will know again
I shared them before
Ive learned thats a mistake
They will leave
He will take his hammer and shatter your heart
Your secrets spilling out where everyone can see

I remain silent . . .

but I'm afraid

that . . .

I have been

Silent

for so long



that I must speak on the inside

but on the inside I can only scream




These screams are so loud

it hurts

and I am afraid that

I have busted my ear drums

and can no longer hear myself anymore,

inevitably stuck in an endless silence, unaware that

I am hardly alive anymore