insomnia

the clock in my mind
doesn’t really tick tock
it’s more of a low cruel scalding grind
like a rusty cog from an old Slavic car
i lay on my mattress the linen pulled tight big fluffy pillows to hold in my thoughts
the colors are sanskrit oozing in sunburst lotus in buds
every so often when my body shuts down
the beat of my arteries scats like old Calloway
from a past filled with poisons textured with scars
then the grinding is noticed by a runaway synapse and my eyes they go shut
the cat’s by my footstool and the dog’s by my side
yet it is lonely the spirit is gone
she hides in the closet
where her wings were cut off
diagnosis haven across the bookshelf
eating disorders sadness depression societal crud
the plant upon the dresser silver and wide reminds me of Warhol and incense and wine
then the phone pings and i go rub my eyes
i hear that new song sent from afar
i wonder about mother Hubbard and the Kennedys the story of pauper clowning the kings
so i get up to empty the voids in my throat
i walk to the kitchen and touch a tea pot then i look out the window and think of your mouth the back of your head
do i look for what’s final or do i trudge back to bed

hey letter X

hey letter X
you’re my favorite
i relate with your
closed off heart center
but four very open ended arms

i too have closed in
and have for many years
but the more the heart shut
i kinda became vulnerable to
the dark underbelly of too much
awareness of things best left alone

some might say through this traveled winding tar soaked road that i’ve acquired more X’s than the Pussy Cat Theatre

i guess it’s the best to have open options not to get boxed in but at times in the midnight hourglass of time

the thought Xes my head that we both have four paths and our keys to the maps are rusted shut deep in our centers

the photo

there you are ever so elusive little girl in marching boots eyes full of emotions jaded and dry your face long hair going it’s own way and your lips couching words hardly ever spoken what happened to you can you tell me anything or do you assume i already know the pillow the dark room the old narrow bed sheets scratching and pricking like thorns and when it was over the negative processed in the infinite dark rooms of our mind days became stages of distortion where actors die to live but you exit right all the time the night’s cusp on your worried face the wider you smile the deeper the pain snapshot smile snapshot cry snapshot deny 

R 12:9 to 13

the wood peels from the shanks of the inside of the ghost temptation rots teeth grind in the daymare of desperate desire the room with no view the floor is on fire and the sea she is angry boiling up to the chair of judgment it’s not your time yet the mistress and her kin invade my gossypium cabin fever out i say no room in my nightmare you would not understand day three the muscles stalactites reaching up to a god out to lunch remember holy time is different than human seven heads are better than none my hands in outer space the heart percolates in mother’s Turkish coffee pot ssshhh she doesn’t know licking out to anything that moves without a pulse to send some help a little bump a little drop a little cup to ease lubricate the crumbling road to the reality of seals breaking slowly