two midnight trifles harvested from dreams.

i.

A titan of such savage grace,
That all who see him genuflect in awe
Or stand aloof,
It matters none to him.
For such is his security
That opinions pass unnoticed,
Like shadows scattered
In the wind.

ii.

Long the sweet sweet
Slumber of the night.
Low murmurs crowd
The echoed canyons
Of the mind.
Crisp sheets and
Darkness sanctify
Death's twin . . .
And morning,
Tardy with indifference,
Charms the starry welkin
With a sigh.

the price is too high

They say that if you listen to the song "Stayin' Alive" ten times in a row, the ghost of Maurice Gibb will materialize in your kitchen and make you a sandwich. But the price is too high.

#67 HALF ASLEEP NONSENSE JOTTED DOWN

If I can find
Five things
That have never been—
I'll see them, then I'll know.

The customary
Things
That never were.

Down to the left
And down two rows
Is the place where the thing
With two noses goes.

SMART ANSWERS TO DUMB QUESTIONS

Q: "What's your favorite color?"
A: "Depends on the object."

# DOG SKELETONS

And then people started seeing dog skeletons walking around at night. First there were reports of single skeletons, and then packs of ghastly animated skeletal dogs. No one believed the reports at first, but then the sightings were reported nationwide. Each skeleton walking in its own unique way, a permanent toothy snarl on each skull, heads down, as if the habit of sniffing persisted in ghoulish phantasms with no possible olfactory sense. The empty eye sockets were wide and expressionless.

Occasionally a dog collar was spotted, dangling off a short span of spinal chord between the skull and shoulders.

At first people were alarmed, claiming it was a portent of the "end times," but biblical scholars had to admit that packs of dog skeletons fit into no known prophetic writings, old testament or new.  Others conjectured that it was pollution, or radiation, but scientists had to admit they to could find no explanation.

As they passed through the streets at night, the dry, fleshless paws sounded like dry leaves skittering across the pavement, wind or no wind.

Motorists would see them crossing the street. Some would stop and watch the horrifying parade of dog skeletons cross the headlight beams, while others would hit the gas, scattering the bones everywhere, the satisfying crunch of bones sometimes costing them a chipped windshield if a particularly large skull impacted the glass. Later no bones would be found, as the skeletons, animated by some unknown supernatural force, would recombine and continue on toward whatever mysterious destination draws packs of dog skeletons.

#58 ODE TO NYQUIL

Sweet nectar of the Lotus Flower
Purveyor of uneven dreams
Ferryman to Lovecraftian ScreamScapes
Sweet vapory drops of Mind-Twisting visions

Dropper of Heavy-Lidded slumbers

So careful do I approach
The doors of your subterranean grumbles
The mangled half-understood phrases
Overheard in uneasy dreams.

Oh Bringer of Deathlike Lethe—
The blue-tinged landscapes of
Unspeakable Horror and Impossible Dares
Beyond Euclidian Space and Linear Time

Strike down these cloggy bellows—
Sick with the weakness
Of traitorous health

Lower me slowly
To your undersea realm—
Where illogical thoughts skip
Wildly through unfamiliar
Copper-Sunlit towns

{Groggy jaunts to the
Midnight toilet
Bleary-eyed and eager to return
To Blissful Vapor-Sleep}

Oh NyQuil!
Key to the
Forbidden Unholy Bacchanal!
Of haunted Seventies Discos
And Parallel movie sets!
Conversations with the Dead
Skydiving with Manatees and
Oscar Wilde

Having a sandwich
With Sally Struthers
In World War One trenches
Half-caught visions in
Unnamed haunted regions.

Soothed,
Murmur-rocked smoothed
In a cool roof—lumbering
Feather-drift easy—like decent
Into dewy fluid sway,
Wavy vapor shady
With a gradual casual stir
To the demur.
Apostle castle
Namaste taste vanilla flavor
Navel gaze raze to the vapor haze.
Groovy chode toad
In a mellow abode.

Oh Nyquil! Thou has shown me
The Face of God

My balloon-like limbs
Sway in your reedy-whispered
Willow Gardens—

To traverse desert landscapes
Under star-strewn nights
Warm vaporous sleep to ancient cities
To find the texts
Of dark philosophies

Oh NyQuil! This mild sickness
Is my excuse—to travel with you
To alternate realities—
You are the doorway—the key.

Odd voices give ill advice
And shadowy figures move
At impossible angles.
Judgmental angels give sidelong glances
As they drink coffee.

I would awake from this,
But I have yet to fall asleep—
And then it will begin.
And in that dream, I'll dream.

In that dream, I'll find pen and paper
And write again this very page
And drop the notebook there
And fall asleep again, within a dream.

#55 THE ARMADA OF DEADLY DELIGHTS

The Armada of Deadly Delights
Plows through a brackish sea.
On the lead ship stands a figure,
Alone on deck in the breeze.

Below there's a dusky bordello,
With delights for both ladies and gents.
There's booze and dancing and food galore
From the seven continents.

One hundred luxury barges,
All follow a course for the edge.
But the music's all right and everyone's tight
The champagne is chilled in the fridge.

The Armada is hell bent for leather,
The engines are full speed ahead.
They're sailing off to the edge of the world
All the captains are already dead.

The revelers can't stop the party,
Though they think something might be wrong.
But they drink some more and try to ignore
While they dance to a popular song.

And the men below keep on shoveling coal,
And the engineers bite their nails.
The ships plow on; there will be no dawn
For the ships without any sails.

The edge of the world's getting closer.
The waterfall to the abyss:
And the passengers drink, so they won't stop to think
That maybe something's amiss.

Alone on the deck in the moonlight,
The Grim Reaper is nursing a beer.
If he looks to the West where the angle is best,
He can tell that the end is near.

My site: danmanning.com

#45 TO ALTER FOREMOST "YES" ON THINGS GONE BY

To alter foremost "yes"
On things gone by
The buried precepts lost
In wayward thoughts

Of idle hours spent by
Somewhere else
While we our dollars make
By daily toil

Bleak, bleakest winter
Bone-snap cold
(driving indoors all,
the absent sun)

Diverse slanders
Uttered out-of-doors
Let bygone lip-synched prayers
Unanswered, fade

Ignored by yawning
Channel-surfing God
Who flips through decades
Clicking one by one

Sleep the death-like sleep
On crisp white sheets
Nocturnal thoughts of
Lost car-keys and things

The lumbering wonder
Thunders, underwhelmed
Hecate's whispered
Incantations lost

The Viking's funeral pyre will blaze
Up out into the sky
Upon the waves

Three thousand years
And not a minute saved
The sands of time
Will fall for anyone

Young faces wrinkle slowly,
Week by week
And strong backs slowly
Weaken, year by year

The dreams of long-dead men
Traverse the stars
To sadly settle planets yet unmade

The testaments of unnamed
Alien gods
Writ down on stones
Decayed one billion years

And everyone the pulverizing time
It grinds down every upstart
That it finds

To alter foremost "yes"
On things gone by
To move the minute hand
There yet again

The moon will close her eyes
And look away
The sun will smile and sadly
Shake his head

The sky will weep and stretch
From here to there
The earth will spin and say
That all is well

The graves will stand forgotten
Day by day
And everything will be
As it will be

To alter foremost "yes"
On things gone by
The buried precepts
Lost on scattered thoughts

#47 The Greatest Nap of All

I believe that napping's in my future,
Close the door and nap the day away
Show them all the snoozes I possess inside
Because I'm tired, I'm getting sleepier
Let the voicemail take my calls, because I'm sleeping
All day long.

I decided long ago, to take a nap, my head on a pillow
If I fail, if I succeed,
At least I'll get the sleep I need!
No matter what I'm sposta do,
It has to wait 'til after Three!

Because the great-est, nap of all,
Is happening to me.
Learning to nap all day
Is the greatest nap of all.

#38 A POEM ABOUT FALLING ASLEEP

Falling asleep,
The heavy-lidded
Cotton brain
Of half-formed
Random thoughts—
The gravitational pull
Of a perfectly-sized
Planet
On half-helpless
Lazy bones.
The book
Half-fallen in slackening hands—
The flinch
Of half-dreamt stumbles
And imagined falls—
The cloistered night
Brings singing frogs
Or oscillating fans—
Invisible dogs
In distant barking
Moonlight-gilded streets—
The black-grass
Vacant front-yard distant highways—
Falling asleep—
The deathlike slumbered
Nighttime dreaming cities—
Nocturnal thoughtscapes
Loaming through the midnight—
Death's cousin nightly
Pours through sleepy eyes
Two grains apiece
The countless sands of time.

# 74 BOUND ONE TOWN FOR A THOUSAND YEARS

Bound one town

For a thousand years

For a thousand years

For a thousand years

Bound one spine

One heart, one head

With the only ones

That we get 'til dead

In the blue and red

Color blind instead

For a thousand years

For a thousand years

Bound one town

And then walk around

For a thousand years

For a thousand years

It's been said

That until you're dead

For a thousand years

For a thousand years

Cut the lights

And draw the shades

You're the only one 

That was ever made

For a thousand years

For a thousand years

Bound one town

For a thousand years

I just heard a voice 

In the cricket dark 

For a thousand years

For a thousand years

Pinpoint light

And the wicked moon

For a thousand years

For a thousand years

Sit and write

For a thousand years

Random monkey words

For a thousand years

Bound one town 

For a thousand years

In the cricket dark

For a thousand years

this ungodly hour

Who is awake at this ungodly hour? Who guns their car down empty boulevards? Who types hyperbole into the ether, in darkness, into phantom glowing keys? Who drinks alone in front of dying embers? Who stands the watches of the night, in restaurants, gas stations, Walmarts, cop cars, army bases, shotgun shacks and marble kitchens? Who is awake at this ungodly hour?

Not Fat Elvis, not Fifties Elvis or Bad Movie Elvis, but '68 Comeback Special Elvis

Last night I was visited by three ghosts. Or maybe it was two ghosts and one creepy old man, I'm not sure anymore. The first was the ghost of Elvis Presley. Not Fat Elvis, not Fifties Elvis or Bad Movie Elvis, but '68 Comeback Special Elvis, perfectly side-burned, tanned and vibrant at a mere 33 years of age. This is the Elvis just four years before his divorce and The Fattening.

My tire had blown on 131, North of Rockford, coming home from a Parcheesi competition. There was no cell phone service, as is always the case on misty November nights with unseasonably mild weather.

Elvis pulled up in a Ford F150. He got out and from the passenger seat, someone yelled "Lets give him a lift, E."

I was in the middle of putting the "doughnut" spare tire on.

Elvis took it from me. "Doughnuts are for eating, not driving on." He took a bite of the spare tire, and ate the entire thing. "Come on."

I accepted the ride, what more could I do? They were heading south and I wanted to get home.

The passenger in the truck got out. It was J. Edgar Hoover, wearing the dress from Beyonce's "Single Ladies" video. It was disturbingly short and gruesomely tight. He leered at me, his fat face behind thick glasses. His sparse greasy hair was in a pitiful comb-over.

I had to sit in the middle. There wasn't much room.

"We didn't just stop by chance," Elvis said. "John, get me my candy will you?"

Hoover reached into the glove box and brought out a prescription medicine bottle. Hoover dumped five or six pills of different colors and sizes into Elvis's hand, and Elvis popped them in his mouth. He had a can of Schlitz in the cup holder and he took a swig.

We were careening down the road at ninety; a light mist fouled the windshield but Elvis seemed unaware. He didn't put on the wipers. The tail lights of the other traffic were just blurs as we snaked through the traffic. The speedometer approached one hundred.

"We're supposed to meet someone in town," Elvis said. "We need someone of the living as a go between."

"Who is it?"

"Don't worry about that," Hoover said. He threw a manila envelope on the dash. "We just need you to hand him this."

"Why can't you guys do it?"

"This guy isn't really 'alive', and he isn't dead yet," Elvis said.

On Canceling My WoW Account At 3 Something in The Morning

I woke up at three this morning thinking about one thing. Not the economic catastro-fnck in which we're all about to wallow. Not the book I'm supposed to be writing. No. I woke up thinking about how I was going to kill Baron Rivendare in Stratholme. When you wake up at three in the morning, and the first thing you think about is a role-playing game, even one as awesome as World of Warcraft, it's time to disable the account. (For awhile)

At the age of forty-two(1) I should be doing something besides slaying imaginary monsters, shouldn't I? Writing! Writing! I tell myself. The only overhead involved in writing is time, paper, and thought. Those come pretty cheap, even these days, yet I can't bring myself to commit to writing anything "kick-ass". I can't commit to jack-squat. It is this intrinsic laziness on my part, this absolute procrastination, this ridonkulous nerdic half-assedness that keeps you, dear reader, denied the pure genius that I, Dan Manning, might excrete from my brain-wrinkles if only motivated to do so.

That is the reason that I, Dan Manning, have cancelled my World of Warcraft subscription. The world needs greatness right now. This week, Barack Obama hit his head on the side of an airplane while waving to the press. I've cancelled the President's Weekly Radio Address from my iTunes, and I never actually listened to any. It's been what? three weeks since he took office? Turns out he is not the Messiah; he's just another guy in a suit.

The world needs a hero, and I, being the narcissist that I am, have come to the conclusion that out of the six-billion people(2) on this earth , I am the hero that this great nation, nay, the undeserving world itself, needs.

How many of us heroes have been distracted by Bread and Circuses? How many of us have given up reading only to watch another episode of "Mythbusters"? (Or "Destroyed in Seconds", "Southpark", or "Spongebob Squarepants") How many of us geniuses, thinkers, philosophers and scientists have watched one too many episodes of (INSERT FAVORITE TELIVISION SHOW HERE). Those half-hours can't be retrieved. That time is truly wasted. Our journey between cradle to grave is finite. Time does not wait for the dreamer, the idle, or the American Idol voter. Time does not give the Beanie-Babies collector a second chance. Those focused on hate, triviality, NASCAR, "This American Life" or Facebook have chosen to invest that time, that precious, unique, non-refundable block of time without reflecting on what they have lost: time.

What am I trying to say here? Oh yes. My World of Warcraft subscription. It drops off at 4:09 PM Thursday. Mark that down folks, that is the day the world gains a new Shakespeare. That is the moment a genius will embark on a story so heartbreaking, so inspired and true, so infused with the very universal essence of life itself, that all wars, hatred, prejudice, racism, strife and awkward silence will be lifted from this weary world.

Or I'll watch more television. Not sure which.
-----------------------------------------------------
(1)42 being the answer to the question of Life, the Universe, and Everything according to Deep Thought. It only took the supercomputer, created by the hyperintelligent pan-dimentional beings, 1.5 million years to figure out

(2)many of them more educated; many of them more motivated, determined, and focused; some of them better looking; many with a lower BMI; many who rely less on Wikipedia and spell check; many with lower voices, less wrinkles, better haircuts; many more modest, talented, and loving; many more deserving; more caring and empathetic

Fun Fact!

The first sentence of the Declaration of Independence is 71 words long:

"When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation."

who calls at this ungodly hour?

12:09 AM.

So I'm sitting at my desk working on a fantastic piece of fiction, a stunning literary achievement just waiting to happen, when, at exactly midnight, my friggin' cell phone starts ringing.

It's a business line really, and I look at the little screen and it says RESTRICTED. Restricted? WTF does that mean anyway? Why do they even allow that shit? So it rings and rings, and I let it ring and ring because there's no way in hell I'm going to pick up a RESTRICTED call at midnight. Who knows what whack-job is on the other end? Why would anyone use a RESTRICTED number, unless they are up to no good. It was EXACTLY midnight. Who was calling me? A mass murderer?

"I’m in your house."

A crazy ex-girlfriend?

"I had your love-child! He's twenty-one and he wants to meet you!"

or

"This is the NSA, what the hell are you up to?"

So I let it ring. And it stops ringing, missed call. No voicemail.

Then, at 12:02, it rings again! Oh my GOD!

"This is Elvis, I need your help on a very important mission. President Nixon specified you by name . . ."

Who calls at this ungodly hour? Charles Mansion? Does he get phone privileges?

Then again, maybe someone was just having wicked-bad computer problems.

hey hey we're the U.S. Navy Monkees . . .

It's 5:20 in the morning. I dreamed I was back in the Navy. Some friends and I were at the base "mall" and we ordered cinnamon rolls at one of those stores in the mall that sell cinnamon rolls. Then three of my friends decided to break into the theme song from "The Monkees" and everyone joined in. Weird.