Text

sometimes i'm
not in the mood
(moods are the tides
of the sea)
to sleep
frozen before a computer
screen
the clock reads four
waiting for the
touch of light
that signals the start
of another day
to waste
jittery feeling
(makes my hands
shake as I fumble
for a pill that will
numb me, dumb me
down)
sometimes i
wish i smoked
reaching for a cigarette
as vicious day
chases the smooth
night with her
black silk stockings
(how i long to touch them
feel my hand
icy chill)

not flowing
hard bits of prose
the words won't come
head aching
already started the day
yesterday
(of course)
hand covering mouth
as if to hide a smile
perhaps if i could
feel my hands typing
i could feel my heart
it's gone away somewhere
i've forgotten where i
put it
perhaps a woodcutter
took it to show
my mother

waiting for blood
to be drawn
if not by a nurse
with a syringe then with
a gleaming razorblade
(with the words imprinted
Made in USA
as if it mattered)
too much drama?
an early morning fight
with self
talking about self
thinking of the months (years)
wasted
on self-reflection
vulgar turns of prose
and needless typing

eating tuna with crackers
at 8:32 and wishing for the day
to end
wishing for night and her
silk stockings
go to sleep
goodnight