When I think of all the nights(like this) I have not sleptand wept in envy of those asleepthe panacea of counting sheepresolves to craving lamb kabobbuffet style, plentiful and cheapArtists say night evokes the museand that the creative juices flowbut infomercials and endless news are the dull divinities that I know:tacky wraiths ginning carrots to juiceand the living dead as talking headsPeace is called the ascetic’s companion(a more nostalgic term than warden or pest)in arbitrary rule over its maniacal minionwho stole neither wine nor a moment’s rest;my cohort smiles like a victor of chess piling on silence with a mime’s finesseI have reveries of an endless slumberin a sleep-number bed under baritone snoringwhile gladly taking on the character of lumberafter it is felled and offered for sawing;Let wolves howl and pussies hiss in the alleyI shall be dreaming on a pastoral valleyWhat else, you ask, bequeaths insomnial Night?Neither Cupid nor Vixen or sugarplum...(Read Full Post)