Insomnia

naturally speaking

time is unstructured

an attempt to map the stars 

turned to abomination 

growing block theory 

to black hole relativity

all bullshit

wet clay in the hands of God

made brittle by the deserts of Knowledge 

who knew blood, sweat, and tears 

could make a thing so dry

only problem is

you can’t make bricks 

from dry clay,

silly Man

so I return to embryonic mud puddle

and imbibe bitter coffee tonight

unleash hidden coyote cries

never set an alarm clock

and wake with sticky feet

in tangled sheets

to an afternoon sun

bricks are for God to make 

but there is freedom in this wet-clay devotion