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