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A Worm Sleep

I'm a worm in a forest. I show my ~

face when you lift a garden potted plant sometimes.

On a particular September night, I laid my wormy

head down on a thrifted tome, or perhaps a stack

of design magazines from the nineteen-nineties, and

became instantly melancholic with the weight of

knowledge of the efforts of artists of the past decades.

Asleep, on modern parchment imbued with culturally-irrelevant magic, under soil,

dreaming of

a nature where I stare at nature

and it stares back,

flipping through magazine pages as

lamp becomes sun becomes lamp, before quenched,

petting eight furry & semi-furry & furless pets

from a prone carpet position with a television playing in the

other room (I don't want to hear it but its sparkles of noise are inescapable!),

authors errant-- the oh-so-humble proprieters of pop-up books for

delusional home-sextons of immovable book vaults,

rising above the clouds with Nils Holgersson, Olaus Petri, Chaucer, that one

poet that wrote that one thing about the vegetative Christmastime knight & a shiny ball,

Julien (the Red), Trale Lewous, the wax-dripping Geoffrey who sketched & sketched,

the sneeziest lyricist, Ella's Machine,

& others whose names have melted from my mind but not my heart.

While I await my 5 AM moist-soil, stiff-neck awakening, I have been exporting various

visions to the Information Dirt Pathway via a contraption that siphons dreams with the

force of a jet from minds looking inwards.

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