TARGET PRACTICE (written July of 07)

It's 11:56PM.
The air conditioner is
offering it's white noise.
Insects with their contribution
are second, the the scratching
of the pen, and the sound
my hand makes against the paper
when I slide between words
then there is the continuous drone
of my nervous system
and my circulatory system
with the more subtle heart beat,
the squeaking of the foldout table against my elbow
the chewing on the end of the pen
and the visual of me in, the truly objective fact
in the dim lit kitchen
at exactly midnight now
completely naked
no jewelry
just a pen and a notebook
that cost me 10 cents
and now that the facts are straight
I can feel the intense vibrations
of my irrational dream reality
ready to submerge into blackness
the sinking zepplin
full of children
headed for the electrical socket
to unplug the red cord
to the mind.