prose poem
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They say there’s no catching up on sleep, and it must be true.
In three decades I have only gotten “enough” sleep for maybe a month. Nights I stay up shouting, crying, letting the Void emerge from under these chewed up ribs and tear apart my day and life and work, shred the love I have for whoever is before me, and if there is no love there,…
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I love working.
My brain is like a dynamo that highschool students present at science fairs. It is crude but unstoppable. It fits neatly in a diorama and I am dying to show it off. And because my brain is always moving (shark) so too are my hands; such stubby fingers typing, clicking, dialing, waving a wild dream…
Erin Oubliette 