We have now entered the birds-chirping-all-night season.
insomnia
At two-fifty-nine
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—
no offense.
Amen.
Fantastic shores
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
Insomnia ticking
three o’clock —
anxiety, regret
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
Can’t freakin’ sleep
Insomnia is invisible
but hard as concrete.
—blackout poetry created from Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, 1996, page 21
3 a.m. poetry
Night speaks a language of shadows and of the soul. 3 a.m. is poetry translatable only by the moon and stars.
Loudness in the quiet
A clock is ticking
in my living room
I never even noticed
that it makes noise;
my mind is ticking,
my heart is ticking;
everything quiet
is audible at 3 a.m.