it’s the conditioning, kid;

You ask the wrong questions,

And at least I’m lulled away

From the dredge of sleep.

­

I couldn’t sleep anyway.

Not if I got paid to try,

Not if it wasn’t natural automata,

­

Not with all the sleep aids

And drugs and aesthetic sound-

Scapes. These make for proper sleep—

­

The type that leads to a morning-made bed,

Fixed, firing neurons, and

Unambiguous movement of joints—

­

Trying to dislocate your poor positioning,

And find that elevation.

Branding your book and burning your pages,

­

Your canteen filled with 38 oz.

Of H2O that you’ll refill

Three, four times; and maybe you’ll walk

­

Five miles today because doctor would say,

“This helps you clear your mind

And this is healthy.” Healthy is good. Today.

­

The right question,

The right fucking question

Would be, “are you okay, kid?”

­

I’d say my stomach hurts, I feel

I’m just chasing sunsets.

I’ll talk about the vein,

­

The big one in my hand,

From holding all of the guilt.

And then I’ll ask the wrong question.