Another Insomnia Poem

Another insomnia poem pasting into the humming roof of my dreams

Keeping the thoughts in like a mosquito of flesh irritating the underbelly

Of skin swelling in pink, the blood knows the history

As if immigrants trapped inside the bowels of the Titanic

The others on rowboats, these not so lucky in the entrails of contemplation

Pacing in buzz-wings incapable of flight, released over the ocean

Knowing there is no land around here to find another set of limbs to nourish

Just his arena pent in jubilant frustration at the fireworks of a quarter past midnight

Into Mardi Gras day with work in an octet of hours braying like a rural donkey

The sleep scoots away like a school of carp in unison shifting as the motion in the waters occurs

The nothingness on the walls, the taken-down frames that use to keep me company

Stored in the half-way-home is a taunting jester 

The nocturnal evolution knows the only piece that helps the sleep

Is only here every other weekend and the rest is all a jumble

The past, the future, the present co-mingle in a nest of straw, worms and sky

The charcoal night blankets the bowl, but the luminescence of the moon shines brilliantly

The white glare is inescapable, even with the black-out curtains

The re-living, the re-telling in re-organized words and re-arranged letters

The demons keep dragging bodies into and out of graves like sadistic musical chairs

Today and tomorrow hop with the melody and exchange insurance information in case of an accident

Notes are left on night stands with red pens, wallets and remotes,

Scribbled to remember in the morn like a bandage to mend the wounds

Of another night of dreams spliced together, stitched with shuddering expectations

Knowing it better to be ignorant and go in oblivious; Ah the beautiful sleep of forget

Wandering in the gardens of tulips and freesia, the scents of dumpsters and vomit in parking lots

The concrete and the silent drives, the words bringing me to my knees, fortune spent  on

The road without end rolling, knowing there will be need to turn around,

The escalation of commitment that morning is closer than bedding time to rest

Might as well go full circle and eat regret to try again another time

Winter is February twelfth, the summer is so far away and last spring I started trying to dream  

Sleep one through and hold onto you in red, blue, gold and pink, the turning coils

Circles inside of circles as if the production of the nothing is not negating what was possible

Knowing each time a man tries, a bit of him subsides to know what is true and what is false

What to rely on and what to toss away into the waste bins, refuse and the insomnia creeps in

Clings and drools over the blanket tools, knowing the warmth is in another cause

This body does not wish to rest and would rather be another place, always in the quest

Of finding home, a vagabond inside his own mind, thinking of what there is in the other

The midnights of censure as if the puzzle came with the complement of pieces, the curves and the blur

The straight edges and the dozens and dozens missing in the creases of time

Folded in the crevices of fabric, furniture and attics, boxed up, moved and storms

Mailing tape and computer hard drive failures erased, so why not

Format the wipe and take the night away like a stimulant the call of the times

That I was not made for this, but a word, a bottle to the ocean, a message and the notion

Of syllables and ringing tones of ropes cut and tethers to worlds in between worlds

Where a man is not quite himself, and not quite absurd, just functioning enough

Get a couple of hours of partial sleep and partial work, productive to stay employed

Laughing at death and life, the point of felicity and strife immersed in the inebriated shine

Drunk on the exhaustion with tingle-head knowing if the day has ended

This is the summation of the life he has led and this cannot be life at all

Just a fountain of repetition burned in the sleeplessness of the last, coming and going

And always without knowing to drink of the poison or the wine, two cups all tasting the same

Find out years from now the results and might as well imbibe both

To make certain because the wait is worse, the thinking, the wondering

The non-change of humming awake as the hours stack like bricked-in mistakes

Building a house of how much I know anyone questioning the validity of personal facts

History and the tower-stack pulls the lynch pin, the corner-stone is removed and

The spirits drift silent as if they had never heard the bartering insomniacs

Praying in salvos asking in maps for some way just one way, just some say

That this life had a bridge between the land of dreams and the land of men

Love it, love it grab it tight, the fleeting conversations of honest faith

Starvation in the nadir-pinnacle of delirious midnight in the partitioning of men

Some to stay and others to move on, but really all the same whether now or later

Time the bed and worry the insect buzzing in the ear of perdition and paradise

Before the cities of men, mortar to the spade, built to trade

Dreams for wheat, thoughts for sleep; I give into the glowing solace

I am tired now, I think I will close my eyes 

And think about this all again in the morning