Scary things happen when you are up at Five a.m. In
April sun-light breaks in through rags on
dungeon windows. The monitor shifts in size and
shape, pleading with you to let it rest, let it fade out
as day fades in.

-My writing tablet thinks daytime
for the standard, the norm, the breathing dead.
He says dance in the pants of the early morning dew.
He says when you invert your movements with the
sun a spot appears on back of all you create. He
says that spot is brilliance. He also thinks
cocaine an acceptable stimulant.-

Five a.m. lets in the madness knocking at your door. The madness
has no warrant, no reason to search or seize, still
Five a.m. says, come on in, look around, his underwear drawer is
over there. And that…over there…
that is where he hides his journal
and porn and day face.

-Sometimes I show the morning too much. Always in the morning the
Wood comes out. The Wood says I spend too much time appeasing
the others. He says to ‘fuck them.’
He screams they don’t care, won’t bare
and so he say’s to ‘ride them into the ground.’ Then, he too
cocaine an acceptable stimulant.

Five a.m. likes to light fires round your
wheeled writer’s chair. Figures you can
do your best work while skin melts. And when
Five a.m. leaves you after all its sixty agonizing minutes, you feel that once more the morning has stolen
your spirit, and you lay down, saying ‘shit on this
artist bit