Ode To Poetry Slams

It is a dark and stormy night, naturally

We're trying to get some sleep

at a Travelodge in Eureka

when I get up at 3 a.m. to write

“Hard motel pillow receives snoring from neighboring room”

 

O Thesaurus, we need another word

Maybe it should be: captures, or transmits

How about acquires?

Wait, I've got it — channels!

That's it — channels!

Hard motel pillow channels snoring from neighboring room!

 

I almost said my hard motel pillow

channels snoring from neighboring county

 

Another county yet?

It's possible, if the county line runs

directly down the wall between our rooms

but let's at least try to use some logic here

 

Okay, we're really somewhere in France

during the 1920's and registered as Andre Breton or other

maybe with a wiry moustache

and we're used to drinking a lot

and our pals are getting high

and there's drugs and absinthe

 

And suddenly a fellow named Monsieur Logic

flies spread-eagle out a tall window

while a bicyclist is passing by underneath

and suddenly a wailing baby named Monsieur Surreal

is born on a lane not dark with trees

 

And it's not dark and stormy anymore

It is bright with a surprising reality

or super reality. It's way too bright

to see ordinary reality, and anyway

I've completely forgotten what we were here for —

ah yes, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream