everyday

every daylight, 

I throw my self

on to the floor of awakeness.

sometimes its spillage.

other times it's a toss.

rarely is it a raging hurl.

okay, so there I am,

enough to survey,

maybe even gather in 

as parts of my self that matter.

familiar functions more like common sense.

habits are used to identify.

my body becomes 

the apparent first to be conjugated.

can't get a word in otherwise.

the dreamscape has all but collapsed.

whatever were conversation's had,

are now not lasting remarks.

imposing is all sensory around,

as if all standing guard.

but not really worth attention's grab.

I'd rather fake sleep as now again.

to induce a further tai chi residence,

as if as an after thought 

was precious to this moment.

so let a certain warmth of self

come to the fore.

there should be

a certain picnic spread to the day.

but that has to surface

as if memory will serve it.

and I will pretend to remember 

as my intentions brought forth

from the day before.

damn, movement becomes involved,

first inadvertent, a scratch, a poke, a cough, 

then its actual 

as if efforting is an engine in action.

where verticality is sought.

I have to assume the body-load of personage

to join the rest 

as if of the human clan.

there is so much apparel to being conscious.

I have most of this

on daily automatic.

and this gets me,

to where in the world

I stand . . .