Why It's Always Nap-Time

Like hidden ancient Mayan ruins
in the Guatemalan jungle
only satellites with fancy techno-
cameras-and-lights can see,
sneaky scattered constellated
bits of dream tug up at me:

pulling at my limbs and neck
and knees to join me somnolently
to their mystery: nap deep in
their fat equatorially lambent lap.
I've taught them that I know
a central part of what they’re doing –

caught them at their work;
I know their ways and means:
they’re messengers which quirkily
connect the day to night, sew
up the seams, and hope to
coax me into constant dusk or dawn:

they keep alchemic fires on:
they wait eternally for opportunities
which lend them claim to fantasies
and schemes, renaming them
as if the contents of a mind
were wordless beams and rays

and shattered streaks of haze
that only they – their special brand
of angel – can perceive. When
I’m awake, they want to whomp
me into swoony moony Guatemalan
jungle daze; when I’m asleep,

they want to bleep me into
wide-eyed wonder with their
Guatemalan jungle thunder rage.
I’m locked inside their tangled
humid lurid lovely secret story now,
and cannot turn the page.

.