When There Is No Cure for Insomnia

In the mind the xylophone keeps playing.
On a drum, I sit next to my shadow

Like a cartoon trapped inside the cold,
Lost cell of an unknown Dalí painting,

Flicking a lighter as I search the horizons
For any safe harbor of sleep. Overhead,

The moon has turned to a silver-
Dollar coin with the face of Kennedy

And soon will be dropped into the slot
Of one of God’s old pinball machines.

I think of song birds, how their ripe
First notes of poetry will spring

From an abandoned notebook of Keats,
I think of the stained middle page

On which he might have dropped his quill,
Stopped mid-sentence to cough

And spit up a few bloody raindrops.
The raindrops fall to my head.

The raindrops enter my brain
Where they dry black as squid ink.

In the mind, the xylophone keeps playing & playing.
I sit on the same drum and feel the whole Earth

As it sinks into the cold lost cell of a Dalí painting.
In the mind, the xylophone keeps playing & playing.

Unlike Peter Pan, I don’t even try to stand as
I watch the stride of my shadow walk away.

 
0
Kudos
 
0
Kudos

Now read this

from THE SCND VRSE of MY LFE

That according to The Book of Kings the owls are not what they seem though one might still come to judge by playing the harbinger and (yes) entering Heaven by ‘fire.’ It was ‘by fire’ that Elijah (אֵלִיָּהוּ) defended the train and rite... Continue →