Poem: Untitled

There is a point of strangely prolific writing that happens right at the edge of exhaustion, right when that call of bed intoxicates, and if I resist it a little more, nonsense and happiness come out.
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There is a great canvas, white and arched
with the pick of the wind, the vibration
of sounding board, the tong-tong-tong
of ideas springing into mist, and dispersed--
Your ideas springing into mist, dispersed
by words, by song and lull, and lullabye,
by quick and row, telltale sound and sense,
turnkey imagined whose golden locks apprehend.

This is fairy tale: this is where I go
where I live, where I talk to myself,
where I fall asleep in a lexicon of arms:
here's a sword, a spear, a halberd;
each word more and more absurd
as I clad myself from the cold. Yes,
this is where I retreat when you lecture me,
when I am wallflowered at a dance I never
meant to be, when I am waiting for a bus,
why I wear no earphones, why I still hear
music in my head; the tong-tong-tong
of grilling drums or giant footsteps
or lavender and brass and dreams awash--

Pickle my words and cast them afloat.
Whichever shores these bits of poems create
make sense, or not, as fairy tales do.