the

keeper of sleepers

mind people in thrall,

beyond counting sheep

it’s Nod protocol,

a look-after

nappers in land

where the knocks–

–are ‘turnal,

and tommy,

and

unorthodox–

where peepers

aren’t jeepers,

but portals to soul

–that left to devices

can often be stole-

‘n dreamer divested

of spirit

and thought,

won’t always awake

with the self from his cot,

but docents of dozers

patrol

those a’slumber,

counting the sleep

and soul-drifting

numbers,

rejoining the rested

with spirits that roamed

with tireless

tending,

of people

and prone.

so this is how it is:

vast corridors of grey lined with doorways

> the only place I can truly be safe <

towering and caving in slightly at the top, so high do they reach,

musty and deserted and

mine

I roam there, restlessly,

(usually)

a thousand doors swinging open and shut

like advent calendars, but bigger—an advent calendar you can walk through

an advent town…

some doors have pretty things behind them:

Let’s make a deal, you picked the right curtain!

parcels and strings and cotton candy and faeries

others are a real horror show:

–no one here gets out alive—

cliffs and twisted stairs and garishly bright color and runningrunningrunning, and derisive unintelligible conversation, and one badass dog

worse still than the one horror movie I ever saw in my life

I am Lost

because when life is a horror movie who needs to go find that?

(you make your own hell out of horror movies, besides)

others are places I’ve never been, but have marked on my bucket list as must see destinations, and oh!

I can’t explain how varied the topography behind the doors

from dunes of despair

to peeks of

York Peppermint Patty joy

)freedom from bonds(

(and bonds of freedom)

but I can tell you this:

I can’t be bothered with those doors just now

Roaming that main corridor in my mind—

,,,restless,,,

silent echoes slamming doors thunderously loud.

©Karen Robiscoe

He is

Oz-colored

in a black & white world,

a feather without

cap…

the lightning of

rare storm,

he is

everything I ever

new,

and none

. . .

split

second wind

–instinct

beyond breeze.

Nothing is done in

america anymore–

–the rich won’t have it

american Express

outsourced to

Manila,

Politicians

picked by

Putin,

Stars and Stripes

courtesy of China,

(flown at half-mast)

R E S P E C T

for middle class gone

–overboard–

on a boat too small to

hold them.

 
Dog-eared from

thumbing,

and smudged

but not sage,
 
 
Mys Teary

intrigued.

a suspect blend

of

smoking guns,

pop-up’s,

and crumpled tissue,

there was no digital equivalent–

just limited edition

hard cover

written backward like Da Vinci

–the epilogue a ballad

and pro?

a timed crescendo.

autumn leaves,

and winter fell

. . .

washing the world in white

again,

a stark contrast

to moonless sky,

in’verse landscape

in which I sensed

spring

–before others—

nascent

–not dormant–

and pending,

summer

wind.

I have the phattest verknack…

>

I coin phrases

that are

money

not much, because society

write—thinks they can

and undervalues what they read

not what they see

Simon says

not what they say, so

Speak-and-spell

but lately

I speak a language

I no longer understand,

dreaming of meaning

I shoulda wrote down

and by rote—know.

the adds between

S & M

destined

for subtraction.