I don’t have to worry that I’ll wake up as Don McIver or Tyler Durden. But maybe I’ll be me and where’s that guy been?

And whose screed message is this? Who’s writing this poem while I’m trying to cook some eggs for crying out loud almost noon and I’m just getting around to breakfast.

The problem isn’t so much in knowing that it’s all a dream – it’s wondering whose dream it is.

Who’s drawing all these pictures and signing my name? Someone’s fed the cats already. One less thing to worry about.

I bought my friend a bottle of wine to apologize for threatening to kill him. The doctor says it will all smooth out when I fill out the prescription. But I tell her that sometimes the voices speak wisdom and I won’t hear them if I swallow her bottle of fog.

How do you work in a place like this every day? My anxiety shorts out the lights as some lunatic’s sweaty pain blasts through me from the next room. I’m not like these people. Why are the doors locked? Children need a hand to hold at the zoo. Especially when the cages are full of mirrors.

To love me is to embrace the war of origami cranes I started inside my head, folded from memory into paper shards. A song goes up from the impact crater that used to be a library. You can bleed to death from enough paper cuts.

In my car the radio controls the steering wheel and we all fight to hear our favorite station.

Bad energy, bad energy – Wish I had a vacuum cleaner for it instead of just cats and candles.

Everyday quotidian tasks are extemporized into feats of mythical proportions. Which mango in the produce section looks the most sincere? Choose carefully or no one will love you today.

Is this the same poem? Who’s been messing with my radio?