Pome for Now

a corkboard of moths held with pins through their abdomens

At this hour
My shape increases
By the second.

Who will I be
What do?
In which form arrive
At fullest light?

How Now runs round
The fording thumb–
It can’t be caught 
Ya silly rarebit,
Might as well pin moths
To beat themselves dustless
Gainst morning’s corkboard.

Mind morphs outta maelstrom
So resistant to solid
(per dream per diem perchance)
Wonderland Oz & Moscow
All left under the pillow
Thus forsaken for socalled reality–
Shrugging off sleep.

Here I yam
Hands, nosetip, knees
Feet way down to find the floor
Also shaping in the Now
Why then do I feel so lost?

This is me not me
The me you see
Goes thru these waking motions
Stoops to don this sorry skinsak
Dance the day dance
Blush the face with bright red rounds
Foldover in a mock reflection
More youman than you, man–
Counting down the Now till Then

When once again
I become a mannequin fog
Faintest trace of Earl there is
In nightshirt nightshroud
Upstairs down
Scratching at the window branches
Unlining this confining sketch
Under dark cover to auto-annihilate
Ah, & barely be a memory!

Till next Now dawns
The call receive–
Be more me more me more me
Brightness contrast saturation
Coming thru High Definition
Such an anguished incarnation
Longing for the salad hours
When our abstract supped
On vegan sweetmeats.