Insomniac.

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue ---
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

20.

Since when do the lines become blurred? When is it okay to only be sort of faithful, kind of in love? Why do we have significant others when we're lonely and sad, and become single when we go out? What has happened to old fashioned love and passion?
Where you live and breath one person, knowing that no matter what, nothing would even compare to them? I long for a simpler time. I long for a simple love.

I think I was born a few decades too late.

17.

Take me with you.
I want to be where you are.
I want to see what you see.
Feel what you feel.
But you've
Left me
Here.

material lust.

1997.

I want to sleep forever.

I'm good, I'm gone.

No one can accuse me of not trying my hardest.

Yesterday is today.

Stark white sheets
Mimic the color of
My body.
I have been here
For five hours.
Only thinking of
You.
My kidney
Is rotting and all
You can think to do
Is suck what
Was left of the life
Out of
Me & into
You.

I'll still be around.

It is getting colder & colder.

You are a beautiful flower.

You are a
Beautiful flower.
I was once told.
Fantastic and amazing,
As pure as gold.
But now the air around me
Has suddenly turned
Cold.
And all my petals have
Fallen off.
Dead and
Old.