Awake, is all.

Rising without inspiration, revelation, recollection, premonition, venture, horror, or scripture is a gift. I like to wake up empty & dull.

I like waking up with a soul of ice, undripping with dreams sloshed over the sluice of sentience.

You don’t see Jesus prancing around the flight deck when he rose.

I like to awaken blank and bare, without mother or father, past or future, book or speech, laurel or thorn.

° ° °

The orphancy of waking, the umbilical cut from a dying dream.

The poverty of sunrise. Last night evicted yesterday, dropped its shit on the street.

Yesterday is morning breath.

° ° °

The screaming poverty of birth. Every time I write, I’m born again.

Yesterday is afterbirth.

° ° °

The poverty of resurrection: even the grave is empty.

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“Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.

Photo “Denver Sluice” copyright Nick Ford. Used by permission.