friday, january 27

insomnia's a poor subject, i guess
but an inevitable one
it's too late to be awake,
but you're awake
all the failures and mistakes
are playing on tight loops in your head
all the pain you cause
the unkindnesses you've dealt
out and the promises you've broken

daytimes the sunlight keeps them
out of circulation for a while
and the machinery of distraction you cultivate
but the sun goes down the engines
cough and sputter out
and there you are again
the future like an empty field
the past so many absences and resignations
the cost of everything tallying itself
in the tattered ledgerbook of
a memory handled carelessly
for too long

so you write something
it doesn't really matter what
a letter, a poem
you're only trying to obscure for now the traces
of all that traffic in mistakes and dull
the chattering exchange of all your trade in the
economy of squandered gifts