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Waking Poem
A Poem on the Philosophy of Waking: Rhythm of the Morning
Ring ding dong
And the night that seemed so long
That stretched out like a knife
That was darker than my life
Is vanished like a dream
And I'm awakened by the scream
Alarming every time
And I cannot seem to find
The fingers to the button or a way to stop the sudden and never-ending bludgeon of the clock that keeps right on like that energizer jawn so I grab it off the stand and I take it in my hand
And now I'm carrying my time and now everything is mine the morning and the shine that takes me from my place into a higher space where I pray that every day could be exactly right this way that I get up with the sun and know that I'm a be the one to gathering up no moss to bounce from every loss like Aristotle I'm the model of the political animal and everything's in front of me it's up to me to take it all but every single morning are the same old questions horning up in my head like hornets buzzing up against my eyelids to ask just what I'm doin' that can save us all from ruin or even just to help myself to take my life from off the shelf to make the seconds ticking down worth...
h something more than just the sound of clicking, clacking, passing, packing leaving, traveling, seeing, attacking taking, breaking, making and forsaking and all other things you can only do after waking like the picture of the slaves from their shackles breaking at the back of Plato's caves in a prison of their making a prison of perception a prison of the mind metal around their legs and metal chains to bind their necks to keep from moving so all the while proving to know of nothing more than the shadows cast before the fires at their backs to the wall that marks the tracks of a humanity persisting while all the while they're just existing and nothing more to say but just like every day how I'm blinded by the light that try as though I might never comes the wakeup where my eyesight doesn't breakup so that I struggle first to see while I know it's not just me cause Plato says of the man living in his cave all he knows for all his life is how to be a slave so finally when he's free when at last he can awake
the light that breaks into his eyes is more than he can take
but every morning that I get up
I rub my eyes to adjust
Because nothing might be so terrible
As to miss the things we must
So when…
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