Insomniac

Eyes of cotton between blinks and

mind draped with dirty rag cloth made

of fraying edges.

My words are being siphoned

down a drain of debilitating fatigue

and creative exhaustion.

I’ve switched from fountain pen

to keyboard because my handwriting

makes me seem like a tenured

college professor.

I’ve considered dropping the effort

and picking up a book but

the words aren’t painting their

vivid pictures and I’d rather not waste

a good plot on when I’m semi-conscious

and completely brain dead.

My bed is cat-calling and wolf-whistling

every time I pace by the headboard

and I eye the velvety fleeces

with something close to lust.

Insomnia dangles me awkwardly in that

tiresome place between longing for sleep

and being invigorated by a stream

of half-formed thoughts and thoroughly

muddled contemplations.

As they tumble and riot for attention

in the prison of my skull every muscle

in my body is groaning with annoyance

and chanting in choral a cappella:

“Go to sleep, dumbass.”