6:22 a.m. By Gerard Malanga
I’ve gone beyond the expectant time of dreaming and now no dreams. There are no first names, even. No greetings on the street. No emails. What I’ve done the day before. My memories like a sieve through which nothing
I can get a grasp on happens. The words well placed, those that have survived. And then what to do with them?
Stretching out those sentences for as far as they would go, across those yellow sheets of paper, the lines well placed. Or else nothing happens. I’m suddenly in a lurch to rise up outta bed or drift back to sleep for another search without seeing in the dark. Without knowing what to ask.