The Honeyed Piss of Naptime

Disassembling, and dissembling,
my rapt busy nap mind dreams
dimensionally streaming reams
of schemes, with such small care for
analytic logic that I wonder that I ever
have a claim to same when I am stirred
to re-emerge – I am so evidently

ready to disintegrate and disengage
into a jabberwocky game of floating
heads and long trombones parading
into parlor tricks, charades and trysts
with multi-penised courtesans
who trade their questionable charms
for cupcakes armed with eyeballs.

It would get tedious, I know, to ramble
on with more of that, and so I shan’t,
but something’s clearly burbling
here in all this cant that can’t elucidate
itself except inside the honeyed
piss of naptime, which, as if released
by some lone little boy deep in

the woods, squirts out in loop-de-loops
and swoops into a bill of goods
which he’d be harder pressed to sell
in sentient sunlight than he is inside
the privately indwelling brightness
of my semi-sleeping head. I wonder
what he'd think or do out here instead.

.