What does it mean to call yourself Glue All?
Really? Glue everything?
Okay, paper, plastic, wood—but failure,
fog, memories? What then is everything?
It keeps me up at night.

I go outside to share my insomnia
with the fireflies, but it's late,
just me and the crickets.
The heavy maple tree blocks
all the light from a paltry moon.

It's dark as the inside of my head
which feels like a kite on a string—
so much tethered potential,
the battle over when to let go,
always waiting for the string to snap.

Crickets sing their romantic toil,
I haul the rocks of my worry
from the quarry of memory, recall
last night's dream: a mannequin

desperate for direction, full of doubts,
trapped in his short-term memory—
a creature facing the prospect of life,
with none of its hope.

And now I'm a plastic figure
with an infertile memory, stuck feet;
the dream's purpose: the necessity
to struggle against our limitations,

or to remind me there's nothing else to do,
no matter how many boulders I dig up
each one has to be pushed up the hill;

or it's the purpose of any dream, to prove
there may be a purpose to everything—the task:
to decide which Everything is the real one.