Treasure Island

Sebastian Soberania

(1/23/65 / new york)

Interactive Poetry


when i wake up this morning
sleep is still sleeping
and i slip out of the blanket
not to disturb sleep which
is still soundly snoring

last night we did not pretend
that we were two dead people
sleep was tightly curled upon itself
its arms were not around me
and i could not remember anymore
exactly
whatever happened
to me
or us
if there ever be

this morning
sleep is dead
and i survive
to meet another face of death
in the kitchen
and also in the rest room

and also outside the house
into the road and in the office
where i am working

there are so many faces of death
in my own world
and i am not the loyal subject of sleep
which is death's younger sister
neither am i a friend of death
nor its foe

for out of this everyday encounter
death becomes nothing
but another furniture in the hall
another rock in the garden
part of the numerous leaves in the air
one of those many ' its'
that does not
really disturb me anymore

tonight i will sleep with sleep again
(it is dead and unburied)

i do not name sleep for you
since i too does not know about its true details
or identity
its name its age
when it was born
though i know exactly when it really died
as i have already told you

and what totally is it exactly
the whole truth about its snores and sleep walks and talks
its secrets inside those thick blankets

for in truth in this journey
we sleep with sleep
most of the time
(do i hear ninety percent approving?)

we do not know much of it anyway
or frankly
much less
perhaps

at any rate
(and this may have bored you
to an ending that
bears no significance to your present work)

how can we be interested with such an ordinary matter
that occurs
every minute of the hour?

and what is it that is really worth
writing and
understanding in this world
that does not listen?
(do i hear 95% of you screaming?)

Submitted: Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Edited: Wednesday, September 07, 2011

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