Sleep Crazy One Sleep
A nocturnal sorting machine
clatters inside a skull.
Images flit across closed eyes.
A blind man works there,
he is not the crazy one
he’s just a working man,
a projectionist,
a time-puncher.
Nerves are running on fumes,
they can’t shut down
to leave you flopping around
in a non-sparking void.
Not to ever dream leads to crazy;
the kind of crazy
that bumps into invisible walls.
Look to where the moving pictures
become hints and insights.
Look up
with that far sight water has
in a deep well,
There are surfacing zip codes
that can lead you from
one dream world
to the next.
Read with a crazy heart.
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