Heylel

A Dadaist concept
Of a ti-82
Floats behind my sclera.

The insomniac’s struggles
As evening approaches
Are overtaken by my autonomicals.

Dark comforts,
The birds take their jurist roles,
As I break and nap.

Waking minutes later
To the benzocaine burn
Of my freshly numbed cold sore.

I tap my feet,
Fantasizing in the surreal,
Wanting to create.

In this meditative state,
I realize the next step is coming,
And I must take its course.