It means i can write crazy shit when dawn cracks open my head with its goddamn sun.
i don't know. the poem is a little strange, but i like it.
On some mornings, rooms wash into shades of gray,
and people seem too colorful and shaky with movement,
even if they are merely sitting.
Vents to me look like gills,
slots I could slip and swim through as a fish,
everything else left behind in watery stagnancy.
Why, when it rains, do I only notice the sounds?
Sounds traveling down between bars of a small drain,
droplets falling together down something deep, inestimable.
And then, a loose tooth, as when I was a child,
stubborn and clinging to a stub of gum.
I twist the little bone to loose it - its wobbling irritating.
Blood fills the little brim of my mouth, a French fountain.
It spills out in streams of inevitability and I wait for it to empty.
A triumph - the tooth is now golden and flecked with glorious red.