Sunday, October 14, 2001

post 8a

this poem is relevant whereas i may not be...

insomniac's salute

to the column heater hum in pre-dawn black
to the neon clap of vcr zeros
to the secondary clunk of the plastic wall clock tick
to the whirring tock of my laptop as i type
to the click and pop of joints out of place
to the rattan chair complaints stiffened by subzero lethargy
to the wool itch stitched in scratched sympathy
to the wobble of spheres stretched by a whisper sliver of moon
to the airplane boom mumbled into distant thought
to the serum sugars mulched in the pressured march of habit
to all these things sung in the muffle of sleep,
that creep in the dark and blend in the light,
these jab the pricks of insight gone wrong
like the hand of choice withdrawn
or the misstep of a song
syncopated impossibly to the rhythm of doubt
gone out into the ignorant night.

post 8

the days fade in a haze of repetition
unfazed by trauma, death
this too is a reprise
like every joy every hope
stirred evenly into grey soup
slopped for consumption
regurgitation (bis)
pasted on the wall like a warning
(insert coda)
surprise is for the forgetful