Fog: Work in Progress

trees emerge from still white nothing, become dead towers
white grey promises winter but there is the sense of magic
first standing smoke then a tree skeleton emerges
sentries wait for spring
out of vapor a street lamp takes shape
also waiting
for the sun to give it identity on the cinder block wall

nothing, then the city
quietly speaking of time and decay

I wait for red lights and get this down
out of the fog of blank paper come words
like trees, like street lamps
like a city that now speaks quietly of destination

Sleep is for Sissies (yawn)

I'm tired. I'm tired and I want to do more, and that makes me grumpy and that's just not good.
But that's alright. Just like the slogan I thought of for Starbuck's once, sleep is for sissies.

Things I would do if I wasn't so close to unconsciousness:
Start an essay
Plan my next strategic move for my cake company
Finish my fog poem (I wrote it in the car on the way to work - I was very moved by the whole experience of driving through a thick fog, and then suddenly having the city of Detroit appear, whilst listening to "Thick as a Brick" by Jethro Tull)
Write my resignation letter (ooh...I should do that just for fun sometime, anyway)

Either way, I'm probably done for the evening. I'm super cranky and I have to do things in the morning that require some level of awareness. Some, not a lot. And then, more stuff. What else am I going to do with my time, right?