Good morning

The pale light through my curtains is alien and almost narcotic, bathing everything in such a way that every object appears new. My one dominant eye is glued to the bastketball pants hanging on the back of my door, with the baby blue stripe, the fabric shimmering with light, then to the ring attached to the teacup on my dresser, the object seems deliberate and complete like a Zen circle. There are strange open books on every surface, masks hanging from the bookshelf, a three foot tall Voltron toy in the corner, a large blue ceramic mug beside my head that seems to embody some Alice in Wonderland proportions. My mother opens the door to remind me that I wanted to wake up and sees me examining things squint-eyed. “You’re in shock,” she laughs. Lying on my bed, I remind myself to keep my eyes open because I can’t go back to sleep.  It must be before 8. I reach across myself for my cell phone and see it’s charging on top of a large, orange hardcover of Rumi’s poetry. What a veritable ocean of human poetry pouring forth from a surface crack. The phone says 7:38 AM. Do I want a cigarette or need a cigarette? I roll to the other side of bed, hanging over the edge of the mattress for a moment, staring at the floor:Betting on the Muse by Bukowski is creased open in front of my face.  I pull myself up into nakedness and think that I must be a very strange person.