When You’re Tired

You start to sway a little – all your piddling

volitional amenities do not obtain: there is
distinctly a dissociation in the brain between

what you can feel and what you dimly ascertain
to everybody else is real: hormonal counter-
charms assault the workings of your legs

and arms: tripping, stumbling, every fumbling
member of you misbehaves – nothing waives
the likelihood of shutting down: the Universe,

perversely now in league with your fatigue,
abutting your prefrontal cortex, soon confounds
into a Vortex: fascist lactic acids dance beneath

your dazed synapses and your choices soon
revert to two: follow every sleep-inducing dictate
of the despot which your cellular material has

just construed, or that’s the end of you. Anarchic
electricians got you all rewired. (Damn, you
spout a lot of language when you’re tired.)




.