We have now entered the birds-chirping-all-night season.
Prayer to the middle-of-the-night gods:
please let me sleep
thank you for the beautiful moon
and winter silence
but please let me fall back to sleep—
In bed at night his mind had a ferocious imagination
reality and unreality haunted his turbulent brain
the years ticked, an infinite clock of destiny
searching moonlight for the promise of a future
his reveries of heart were coasting on a fairy’s wing
as the world and universe drifted by fantastic shores.
But the sea, work, and women — physical outlets —
were his anchor — something old, hard, and soft.
scrambled blackout poetry created from F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, 1925, pages 98–99 of the Scribner 2004 trade paperback
three o’clock —
in the depths of worry
swept away in the
whirlwind of nothing —
a horrible nothing
—blackout poetry created from Octave Mirbeau, The Diary of a Chambermaid, 1891–1900, page 6
Insomnia is invisible
but hard as concrete.
—blackout poetry created from Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, 1996, page 21
Night speaks a language of shadows and of the soul. 3 a.m. is poetry translatable only by the moon and stars.
A clock is ticking
in my living room
I never even noticed
that it makes noise;
my mind is ticking,
my heart is ticking;
is audible at 3 a.m.