Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Poem: "Sleepers"


© 2008-2010
mykl sivak

The seeming primacy
of wakefulness, over
the state of sleep
is, perhaps, necessary
to the perpetuation
of this illusion.

The great trick played
upon the wakeful wanderers—
all bumbling in anxious
alertness ,

interacting with the physical,
gathering energy and experience
to fuel the wakeful state
and the sleeping state
as well.

Stimulated, secretly groggy,
to fight, to fuck, to love,
kill, and consume,
to feast with eyes upon hot light,
with fingertips upon textures,

to sense the frictions and
magma-lubricated slidings
of Earth and its sensory blessings;

experiences to be stored
as memories, a cache of moments
and circumstance to be molded by
the blunt mentality of the sleeping mind.

The sleeping state signifies
a biological/conceptual truth—
Perhaps more honest
than that sensed actively
while in communion between
those late conceived sensory
meatuses and the physical

Because, in both states, each
is still alone— in both states, each
exists in the isolated vacuum
of the individual mind.

Opened eyes present
illusions of active interconnectivity—
of self-control and unity.

But, the sleeping figure merely exists,
and the drowsing mind performs
things secret still to its wakeful self.

The symbols the sleeping mind molds
are playthings and meaningless,
but during wakeful hours, they exist
as reflections of observable physical reality
and are perceived as reflections again
of a supposed psychological-conceptual
reality of abstractions and ideas.

The sleeping figure exists
in the perhaps perfect state
of the fetus and the tuber—
each parasitic in its
organic matrix.

I wake so I may witness,
so I can seek a mate or mates,
perhaps to reproduce, and forge new sleepers
to be added, to this eternal strand
of precariously wakeful beings—

and then to sleep again,
not to merely to rest—
but to return to my default.
To sleep in perfect nature
is to accept, and trust
that nature—

to eschew the fears of the paranoid prey-thing,
to forget the hungry predators, gnarl-toothed
and seething, to ignore the fear of darkness,
and to make darkness one’s own shroud,
to wrap it ‘round oneself, blind one’s eyes
and rouse the dreaming psyche.

To sleep among the horrible constructs
of perverted waking experience
is to negate briefly the foibles and follies
of terrible wakeful life.

The prisoner sleeps with in his cell
atop a metal bunk and wakes
only to stretch out cricks and kinks
of his captive wakeful form.
In sleep the predator becomes passive—
returns to the perfect mindless state
of a pre-predacious world.

The sponge, anemone and algae,
the onion and the herb exist
in perpetual sleepfulness—
and the value of creeping wakefulness
is price of power via destruction.

The predator awoke, it devoured the hapless sleepers—
whose biological formulation trusted random chance,
the inevitability of nourishment and eventual
cessation of being.

The fetus sleeps and wakes unaware of a shifting
of awareness—the darkness, heat and fluid,
the umbilical fuel are constant—
and the moment of birth is an introduction
to the wakeful world—

the world of light, unmuffled sound,
world of atmosphere
and inconsistent temperature—
and is slowly weaned to predation,
wakeful interaction, fear and attachment.

The wakeful mind overtakes the sleeping mind
with its hungers, with its acceptance and need
for wakeful stimuli, wakeful constructs
and conventions

disruptive and destructive,
corrosive, corrupting,

and things are assigned
qualities and meanings—
desires built illogically
and unnecessarily,
necessary only to another,

a battle royal of concepts—
the acceptance of atmosphere
and temporary, temporal existence—
the meaninglessness of motion,
the fluidity of fighting and flying—
the nightly surrender to sleep.

Flaws are constructions
of wakeful consciousness.

The sleeping figure is
without conscious connection—
the air and fuel are there,
the plane upon which the figure
reclines is there –

the body sleeps and it forgets itself,
the limbs become extraneous,
communication becomes nothing.

Slumbering is a shedding—
a brief molting of the bodily shell,
a disengaging from the bodily tools
that serve only wakeful purposes—

Sleep is its own aim,
and the waking state exists
to fuel the sleeping thing.

The physicality of the songbird,
from plumage to song to nesting
and migration, to mating, consume
its life’s short hours—

the sessile thing emits explosions
of sperms and eggs, and trusts
the oceans’ currents to intermingle
atmospheres so seeds will find purchase
in some distant sleeping other—

such trust, still, is a fallacy,
the sessile thing exists only, perhaps,
in some world of invertebrate dreaming—
their “senses” mere triggers to physiologic automata,
the bodily constructs of mindless beasts.

The tree stands until it rots, then crack and falls—
then grows again or fades slowly to a lifeless state,
never once emerging to wakefulness,

because consciousness is the state of the hunter
and the parasite—the fearful and mobile,
the anxious and unaccepting, the self-important,
the distrustful, the dissatisfied and hungry.

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