A Dadaist concept
Of a ti-82
Floats behind my sclera.
The insomniac’s struggles
As evening approaches
Are overtaken by my autonomicals.
Dark comforts,
The birds take their jurist roles,
As I break and nap.
Waking minutes later
To the benzocaine burn
Of my freshly numbed cold sore.
I tap my feet,
Fantasizing in the surreal,
Wanting to create.
In this meditative state,
I realize the next step is coming,
And I must take its course.
Lack of Rest,
Lack of Food,
You are killing me.
At least I’m bigger,
What a waste,
He begs for Vegas.
Dear John,
I’ve seen the rain,
Too much, perhaps.
At first, it calms,
But I miss the stars.
Nothing worse than a black sky.
On those nights I think.
I write, I paint.
But I don’t sleep.
Eventually the black turns grey,
As my part of earth
Turns towards the sun once again.
That’s when I go out
For my morning cigarette,
And see the worms haven’t slept either.
I rarely give them thought.
Dodging them on the asphalt,
Keeping my bare feet clean.
They saw the rain,
And lost everything,
And I give them no thought.
Oh, John.
Have you seen the rain?
Grass turned to mud?
I think you have,
But you watch the fresh grass grow.
You look at the clearing and the humid sun.
You light your cigarette,
And dodge the worms,
Giving them no thought.
You smile at the new day,
While I’m stuck in the storm.
I envy you.
Dcid Corvid 