3am cereal eaters / nocturne / notapoem

yours are the poems i cannot write
there being nothing left to say
___these are surplus hours of the calender
___time filled with reverberations ,
___the static of not-yet-forgotten-but-almost-so memory

avail ourselves of the last of the milk. one bowl if not two.
flip through magazines
stare at tabletops
___(but 2-minute noodles i save for special occasions, it being a comfort food)

late-night internet porn, television infomercials, sitting on the ball
_and waiting it out, dear day:
__it appears you have forgotten to end __(these are the ghosts of our calenders)
_or my own rebelling against sleep, so what?, a man needs some time alone with his breath.
___(but also time is like darkness, a nothing that's worth reaching for. once, twice, i swear
___i felt something. hard. with certain edges perhaps. just a split second i could distinguish
___here from now, and then from everything.
______(the phantasm from 2pm walks by and drops a potato chip)

night and time, fluid quantities, sink to fill-in cracks and voids, encompass all empty spaces,
lungs and memory and rooms full of inanimate objects with impossible lips.
say what you will my bookshelf breathes. (i hear cracked tree-branches crying softly)

and the dreams i should have had, those waiting for their cue to charge, crouch behind the door leading to the bathroom and under the coffee table.
bison and unicorns.
thatched roofs.
the shapes of women's bodies.
dead grandfathers.
once in a savannah i died. once down a hill i ran. once i waited for a bus. once i had sex in a monastery.
i do not sleep and the dreams impatient as ever bite their teeth and curse me you f*cker we have a schedule to keep! (i smile all my black teeth to them)

hinged between unended today and unbegan tomorrow.
___my nose drips i rub it with my sleeve.
___i sit on the same couch but my weight is different.
___put a bowl still lined with light-bone milk , the blood of our stone moon , in the sink.

another hour.
an other our

the stone of time to come , someone left it in my hands. grows heavy don'tchya think?

stillness is a kingdom all on its own.
freedom from speech,
and all our other unclaimed rights.

encompasses all empty spaces.
a moving convergence point.
once i thought i touched it and it made sense ,
later i found i was wrong.
here is a stack of papers. here a conversation with my dead grandfather.
here is a bowl of cereal, here is the assumption of tomorrow.
the barrier my skin provides is too thin, penetrable:

night and time, the stone of all to come, fluid quantities, fill in voids,
and things that don't exist anymore become too heavy to carry

though i have no words to tell of it,
and thoughts are expendable.

there is nothing left to say,
these are the poems i cannot write.

and so,
don't.