Sleeping in Circles

Every night
I sleep
in circles
There’s no way to fight
the curls of untame-able Time

Last night’s dream
was every dream there ever was:
Another seam
left unsown
Another smothered
tick   or  tock    or gurgle    or groan
bubbling over like boiled blood
blooming
in and out
like a spoiled bud
assuming it’s own bed
of soil to sprout from

I’ve been sleeping in loops,
trapped in a fluke
of the eternal
Baby,
I’ve been sleeping in circles

Time is a flood that only
pours back into itself,
and nothing exists
unless it exists in momentary stealth,
When you’re drinking with dry lips
for a taste of a second’s fickle wealth

A clock was never made to find rest
or good health,
A clock may never find rest, will never be finished
A clock lives lonely, not lively,
not hoping for Death’s kiss
which is never approaching or missed

I keep sleeping in spheres
and driving in squares
on the long way home
just to find minutes
like roadkill left rotting
on the hot pavement, alone
and stalking
the past as lost laments

Sleeping in circles,
circles of singular plurals
No horizontals, No verticals
No ends and no beginnings
Sleeping in circles,
with the last hour stuck on repeat
Sleeping in circles
and Atlas shrugs at my dreams
where one may find Sisyphus happy
to roll a rock to the top of the world
for all of eternity

Sleeping in a circle tomb,
a white room
that is no room at all
The clock of the gods
hung on the wall
that is no wall at all, with
No bottom and no top

A white room:
I am Time’s necrotized womb,
never born
over and over
The ticks and tocks that scorn,
like sleeping in circles
and driving in squares
killing Time that is not there
fulfilling the galactic quest
of Sacred Nowhere

I’m sleeping in circles
I’m a clock left bare,
I’m sleeping in circles
and I’m driving in squares

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