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"Sleep takes us all"

Give me a tarp and six feet of the good earth to spread it upon and I will become a bird-watcher, a stick-whittler and a prophet until the years have done their work and my body is as thin and cold as an old dime, then I’ll spread my tarp on the shores of a different world and take up gopher-watching.

I.

In antiquity, if one paused near the sea on a moonless night the sea would sometimes whisper that one’s name and if it did it meant that he or she could not drown that night, indeed, they would be granted the power to travel beneath the waves unharmed, to swim beside the porpoise and the squid, to spurn the forest and the farm, the cliff and the swinging-gate for the cold, honest winds of the deep.

But if you sleep beside the moonsilver sea in present times, if you rest your head upon the poisoned sands of this absurd shore, you will be rousted, roughed-up and remanded into the custody of the the County Jail, a place that ruins almost everything beautiful and will never save you from drowning.

II.

So, I’ll declare myself a national monument if that’s what it takes for you to leave me alone, I’ll sit and gather dust through my few-score years and then dissolve into historied bones, bones that even a dog won’t gnaw, if you just don’t send the man to interrupt my dreams no more.

Because truly brother, sister, the dear moon I sleep beneath is just as alive as any flower and the sky and the dirt are two versions of the same thing and if you’ll just take my hand I’ll show you around my six feet of the good black earth with it’s dandelions and intelligent golden spiders who write love-letters in gossamer ink and fasten them to my pillow.

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