Whitman’s Parallel Sleep

Go to sleep clutching your cell phone to the raspy-ear of tired-hallways searching for passages, things to say, knives and forks in drawers, refrigerator dirty old sidewalk, dirty od thing, dirty things to call people when they aren’t asleep and you are beside each other

the night is young, youthful, unborn people’s Syria, awaits in the margins of history, time does not know what it does not know, look, outside a bird calls with insistent, wa-wa, the grey clouds of Colorado sky, so unlike Colorado, swallow us and cotton ball clog us, tell us what the world is, tell us what we’re made of

newspapers and mountain line, lining in a white t-shirt, lining between relationships, the unspoken line between here and there, and lines of airplanes through air, no line in nature, only a mark of man and his finger prints, hand prints, cave prints of painted hands on the walls of yesterday

in silence we apply worlds, while breathing, watching sleep descend upon us, it is night, can’t sleep, tossing and turning, and listening to mirage-colors in the sound their shape proclaims, and seeing nothing of time’s mark, but the shapes and colors of a strange terrain—the things Republicans or Democrats want us to not know, the things parties keep us attending with platters of laughter, and issues on hand

people, what are we, where are we, are we an internet bunch of grapes sitting in front of dandelion screens searching our names through Google-engines in desire to know each other—do we rely on social media until death ends? Are we nothing but small drops of dust, having finally accumulated into bodies, identities, selves, selves enough to have hate, selves enough to touch the liminal horizon of love—and

where does Mr. Mailbox say hello, and Mr. Washer and Mrs. Dryer, hello, and hello Mr. Sunshine and Mrs. Moon, and hello Mountain Morris, and hello Mountain Veronica, and hello Mr. Sneeze—having left your cave preparing for the ball with your beautiful young lustful wife Mrs. Sneeze, and hello Mrs. Sneeze the daughter of political parties with a temperament akin to volcanic explosions when pressed or rushed too soon—and the world

dances and sings in the showers of shoe laces, a clean kitchen, and zero congratulations, zero compliments, keeping company with a broken-brain adult, upstairs who watches and absorbs TV in the manner of a sponge absorbing toilet-grease germs, one large inhale of water on a straw given by local bagel shop—when he demanded how thirsty he was—and small

no brainer events haunt every location at every moment, regiments of small decisions, armies in the decisions of small things, on the sidelines waiting with military intervention, to insert points of view into reality, decisions, one at at time, beside parallel dimensions, the one where I meet the parallel dimension of myself, meeting the parallel dimension of himself, where we finally meet

and where’s that parallel dimension? The one where my parallel dimensional self meets this dimensional self? And there are an infinite parallel dimensions, so why aren’t the one’s that are trying to make friends with this one enter into this one as one of the many possibilities?—this dimension is the possibility where other parallel dimensions are not attempting to enter nor actually entering this one—this is the parallel dimension where we as a dimension are alone—

Heaven and hell still conditioned by their restraints on perception, still not anywhere but a place of nothing-to-do, yet it all continues, where beyond such places, if that’s it, what’s it? There must still continue from the place you, we, I are in, even if in grace even if in hate—there must be a furthering where no doors can touch, and conditions fade, and finally face to face with the face you, we, I had before birth after death, before a face is a face, and without a face as the face of the face that is the one before birth and death, there right there now at this

moment where we are stripped of all location, complaint, stripped of ideology, and society, stripped our our bodies, and minds—and do you think Trump is really going to think his life was all that great and meaningful when he’s on his last breath—and do you think Clinton will have finally come to seeing human rights were of any more importance than her name—and will equanimity finally crawl in and suffocate politics and free thinking from the bonds of private-sector or conglomerate-business with hands in their own pockets as if their pockets were an example of what others need to strive for—and do

these thoughts constitute a looking at the document of our rights—and does a right blinker correspond with a left blinker when needing to make a traffic light decision, in split-hairs, really, does any of this matter, as matter is only what matters in the matter of material pondering—the matter which belongs to you as good belongs to me—matter of the earth, matter of each moment’s particle relevance, the matter of grocery shopping—as the stock-market, and countries collapse, and the economy suffers another situation, and the environment—goodness gracious

a hoax, a façade, a propaganda—the hurt environment, just a joke, so we should or are allowed to dump gasoline into rivers—like that won’t do anything—or what—polar ice caps are melting, but this too is only walled off as theoretical and not a threat, yet polar bears are dying, how denial is a murderer and becoming sleepy is necessary, hello Mr. and Mrs. Sleepy, what are you doing today? O

really, O really, you’re doing what? O, Okay, that’s great, thank you Mr. and Mrs. Sleepy, and do you think I’ll ever really wake up, and do you think my dreams will, made of the same kind of running away from criminal charges as yesterday’s–and will my son be a baby toy-truck or my daughter a wonderful toy-house, and what about those vicious dogs—when they bit me I turned into a zombie—O

Mr. and Mrs. Sleep is this a good time for talking—should I listen, close my eyes, and let you sink your teeth—and can I pray as I mourn that I’ll never awake, shall I shiver into the cold, remorseless realms of thought-made stuff that generates old-memories and broken-emotions searching for justifiable conduct in a world that doesn’t know it can’t find truth—and what shall I do if, you Mr. and Mrs. Sleep walk away, and leave me to my demise, what shall I do? You shall never leave, there are pills to help close the windows of my eyes and heart, there is bleach, there are stories in the CD player I can keep on repeat, there’s no one here but you two, please don’t leave, so that the tunnels of unconscious sewer systems can fester into coils of endless terrain—keeping me video entertained for infinity, where I’ll never crack the code, or fix the puzzle, or make amends to nothing I never did wrong—O

Mr. and Mrs. Sleep what happens if this ends?


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