the morning sits and waits,
a container ready for filling —
while i, 
ideally fitted for just such purpose,
fill nothing but my own head:
with whimsies,
growleywogs,
and phanfasms,
tunneling under my defenses
into a fountain of oblivion

but,

pure as a sun ray through cottonwood,
truth mingles with lies,
and joy with

regret