The Insomniac Is Alive Poem by RIC BASTASA

there is yet no pillow designed for him
to make him sleep soundly
instantly like a click of flourescent light
or the blink
the flash of hypnotism
or the tap of his hand


then sleep like a dead dog, this insomniac, like you
(it is 2: 09 a.m. now, and what blinks it only this power
of the computer and it buzzing sound like
an insomniac
bee in a sleepless garden)

sleep is too cruel and unkind
not even trying to hold my collar and pull me to a soft bed
and give me peace and rest

well then
go, go away sleepy butterflies go away to
the place of waking flowers and be distant, distinct and
disappear, there is no logic in this manner
on a restless brain of the insomniac

sleepless again but taking most of the time
he writes letters to friends, emails to peers, ecards to nephews
and nieces, articles for journals, pause and think, and press the keys
of the computer again,

a rat passes by so afraid, a cockroach flies on my ear,
a dragonfly is lost again flying like a chopper on the ceiling
a lizard waits and lets loose its tongue to engulf an early breakfast
a cold wind, a soul touches my head, my hair moves like a river
my fingers tic tac toe, my mind on an abra ca dabra, opening caves
where treasures lie

and you follow me on this lonely trek in the night in the coming
of morning, looking for meanings in this literary locomotion

stop there, because in truth, an insomniac who is still alive
has nothing to offer

except that you, must tell some other stories, in this mutual state,
your eyes awake, your nerves wrecked, your minds still rambling

i am through
it is now your turn to speak how fast the clock ticks
how time runs without our knowing

it is now 2: 20 a.m. in the place of my sleeplessness