This is what the monster rejects
As incoherent and insulting to a monster
Who has to dream nightly of the insults of being
The very manifestation of incoherence.
The day without monsters began before dawn
With a little blue light over ranks of street lamps,
With daughter bouncing into the blurry bedroom
To narrate a skein of nonsensical dreams, and then
Proceeded to discussion, to sketching,
To reading, to a spilled mango juice exploding
Across the book being read, to shopping
For fake nails, a detangling hairbrush, a sketchbook
In which to capture all the incoherent joy
Of jabbering at a speechlessly coherent world.
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