the Privilege of sleep

Stormy grey clouds

On some days, sleep is difficult,


Even though the wayside attitude of not giving a-

Still prevails within me,

worming its way around when I try

to wish it out.


The drone of the midnight planes

Makes me frantic


threaten to latch leeward

to whistle

to scatter our heads in the night

to conjoin us to

the bodies of those in the next country over,


the sea no longer a buffer state.


After bursting out with

well-contested for war on

our own children

We then went for

 the species closest to us



each day

continues to be a battle

not of the species

but by a species

the earth we have claimed our own

the skies are ours to tear, once


we have set the ale below us on fire.


Unless it permeates us-


for the lucky ones,

it is to catch sight of

a newspaper headline

a broken child

a clog of rubble we refuse

to acknowledge-

And yet, why would we?

If the world were to stop spinning, wouldn’t stagnation be

An Equal Death?


We argue that if even if we stopped

living our lives

our feet would be ill equipped to

offer change, or duty, or some

hapless mechanism to be more than ourselves


Most days it is oblivion

but on nights when I close my eyes

and imagine the little girl

who cannot sleep

not ever-

for fear

that she will sleep forevermore,

I still pervade in comfort

knowing that

bombs will never drop from my sky

will remain in my sleep

and any tears will remain of the

liquid kind.


I am


to wish it gone

in less than ten seconds.


the same time

I suppose

for someone to drop dead,


Under the aim of living breathing spit fire.