From the Fishouse

Because insomnia is no fun and who’s dark and frilly now?

Not me, yes me, oh woe whoah what did we step in this time?

Everything was textbook sweetness, t.v. show thrillingness

and then, then, fuck you and your then, hairy hands

spiral eyeballs, pat and rub, whimsy stick, I saw you

peek-a-wink, yes you simply offered alternative.

I lapped lipped your radiation, let you sneak in the side

kissed cursed your crooked eyelids, lived loved your false greetings

those were good days, those three, they shouldn’t have ended but

clocks, they were born to run, hah, I’m trying to be funny

you made me nervous, bulbous, fortuitous, I’m using big words

and I don’t know what they mean. I squealed for ya.

That’s what I did and you got sleepy and said now we could sleep.

I didn’t want to sleep, I wanted to talk and go back in time

so there’d be nothing to talk about and start over and graze

past, shake hands, shake an ankle, kiss kiss. There was that

stairwell, that lost opportunity of steps and railings.

Now I’m fat, draped in flannel and you take too damn long

to respond and never answer important questions

like . . . Sleep introduces figs and blueberries.

Sleep gives tomorrow. Dear beloved, let’s sleep again.