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June 22, 2008 Insomnia (a poem)When I think of all the nights (like this) I have not slept and wept in envy of those asleep the panacea of counting sheep resolves to craving lamb kabob buffet style, plentiful and cheap Artists say night evokes the muse and that the creative juices flow but infomercials and endless news are the dull divinities that I know: tacky wraiths ginning carrots to juice and the living dead as talking heads Peace is called the ascetic’s companion (a more nostalgic term than warden or pest) in arbitrary rule over its maniacal minion who stole neither wine nor a moment’s rest; my cohort smiles like a victor of chess piling on silence with a mime’s finesse I have reveries of an endless slumber in a sleep-number bed under baritone snoring while gladly taking on the character of lumber after it is felled and offered for sawing; Let wolves howl and pussies hiss in the alley I shall be dreaming on a pastoral valley What else, you ask, bequeaths insomnial Night? Neither Cupid nor Vixen or sugarplum visions those are the harvest of more riotous seasons and Night is but a wintry season of the light; This philanderer of dreams and ennobling supinity bestows bloodshot eyes and a loathing quotidity! And yet I would not trade its cortisolic stimulations for all the money made or sleepy angels up in heaven steroid, opiate, flavenoid – elixir vitae unparalleled; Just now the Sun’s revealed in glowing fowl posteriors spaced like random notes on the swaying line superior But what concern is that of mine? Hell, it’s finally sack time! |
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