a message from a stranger
a compliment from an old friend
a sock chewed by the dog
Life, live. Tonight.
An alarm sounds and I wake up from dangerous
Dreams linger on my mind while I
Dress in an attempt to look fashionable and impress
You are not thinking about me, but about the
Whether our paths cross today is dependent purely on
Timing my walk to the station carefully I hope to change
This morning the train is crowded and I am left
Standing, staring out the porthole, watching towns fly
By the time I reach my stop I am shaking with
Anxiety causes me to walk too fast, and trip over my own
Shoes stop walking behind me, a strangers hand is reached
Down on the ground, I look up, embarrassed and
Frustrated the stranger won’t go
Around the bend I see your bus stopping and you don’t
“Get off!” I yell at the stranger, who is now trying to lift me
“Up you go” A beautiful voice says, I turn ‘round to see who is so daring to do
This is about the time that my heart explodes and implodes at
Once I was running down the street, and I tripped.
You helped me up.
I could sleep all day long I think.
I could sleep through parties, classes, sermons, concerts.
All I need is a corner, just somewhere I can feel wedged.
No blankets necessary, I can take advantage of my body heat.
I don’t need pillows either, I don’t mind the hardness of the floor or a wall.
I could sleep through every luncheon saturated with laughter.
I could sleep through every football game, every race.
I could sleep through the presidential campaign.
I’ll sleep through holiday gatherings, through family events, through work.
But these nights, these nights with their dangerous thoughts, their desires, their wishes.
These nights won’t let me sleep.
And so I’ll sit here at this machine. With it’s cold glow
and I’ll pour it out.
All of it.
I was mowing my lawn today and I accidentally ran over a small frog. Worse than that, it didn’t die. I just broke its leg off. It was hopping away and dragging this broken leg, attached by its skin behind it. I felt the most guilt I’ve felt in a long time and immediately stopped mowing. A tear or two made its way down my face as I walked away. I hope that frog can forgive me. I’m sorry frog.
You wake up on the floor. Carpet. Your face pressed flat and hard to the ground. The sound of inhales and exhales forming a calm white noise accented by an airconditioner hum. You scrunch your face and crack your eyelids. They sting, not so much from light sensitivity as a soreness. They feel rusty. Rubbing the sleep from them, you blink and squint and force your eyelids up. It’s dark and highlighted around the room. Burning clean sunlight cutting through where the blinds don’t quite come together. Around you are several, maybe two dozen, people. Good friends and strangers. All still asleep. Food is crushed all around, ground into the carpet that was your bed. Everything seems to be standing still here, frozen in a brief moment of assuredness, between a blurry night and an unplanned day. This was happiness. You love these moments, when you’re caught in the sore red eye of the storm. A moment of peace and tranquility before being tossed back into the maelstrom of youth. How many weeks have you stitched together with these out of focus weekends? The two day breaks that you so willingly forget. It doesn’t really matter. Not now. In this moment you get up stumbling, and go to the washroom. Splash some water on your face and then sit. Someone’s stirring in the other room.
The men beneath the floor
The men beneath the floor
Laugh and talk and yell
Late into the night
Their cigar smoke permeates the ceiling
Then the floor
And then my nostrils
And my lungs fill with their scent
I sit here at my desk
I listen to their stories
Wonderful tales of love
And money
And adventure
I sit and I
Write them
Down
I write down the mens tales
Their lives
Bottled like sail boats
Such a detailed thing
Smushed
Into such a small
Space
The men beneath the floor
Sometimes fight
I can hear them
Yelling
Cursing
Wrestling
Leaving bruises and cuts
Taking
Scars
I remember what they
Fight about
They probably
Don’t
It doesn’t matter
They fall asleep
And wake up
And laugh
And laugh
Until one day
The men beneath the floor
Stopped laughing
Stopped yelling
Stopped fighting, cursing, singing
The men stopped talking
They stopped telling stories
And like their cigar smoke
The men faded into
The air
Gone forever
But as the smell
Of a cigar
Lingers
So do the mens
Stories
I’ve written them all
Down
They are all that remain
A tribute
An offering
A reminder
Of lives lived
Of dreams dreamt
Of fights fought
Of the men
Beneath
the
floor.
I find it hard to believe
that some people
can sleep whenever
they like to.
It always seems I find myself
sleeping
when I’d rather
be
awake.
Cold and lonely
nights:
Insomnia,
twitching
tossing
and turning.
Warm and loving nights:
tranquilizers.
serotonin.
sleep.
Many people have told me
that sleep is an escape.
I tend to disagree.
Sleep,
it seems,
is a tool.
used by the devil.
to keep us here
when we’d rather be somewhere else
and to force us somewhere else
when we’d rather be here.
with this thought
i am lying
in bed
the whole
night
through.
Last Night my sister told me this:
“Someone smashed the pumpkins out front of our house. Probably one of your psychotic ex-girlfriends.”
I love my family.
