“Insomnia, October 3rd, 2010”
(more selected poetry & prose from an old journal, circa 2010’s, NYC)
Will not
The rose (ever so, quiet).
Sleep.
Eat.
A bomb shelter. Paths of stone clouds. Our dreams tangents in the sky.
Bones and skin chalk.
Insomnia.
In mid-twilight dark.
…will not.
Abide, segregated landscapes
Apple eyes.
Lips, we smooch under the moon.
White, sun.
Bookstores fool of rooms
In dandy earthenware hotel mirrors
False.
…will, not?
Sleep.
Creep.
Telephone obscurity shapes, lord tells me
Telemetries.
“Someday,” hey said, before you died.
Insomnia.
Intangible.
Intelligent.
Insoluble.
In-satiable.
Unweary, dark circle eyes-mourning starlight, sunrise
Indistinguishable
Unpalatable
Pink noise(s)
Developing negatives; problems one after another
Protocol no one remembers.
We used to go there everywhere
Sparrow magnanimity/Sparrow animus
Your ear and mouth color
Petrichor soul
Playing chess in the West Village
Cigarette smoke, my chapel and you’re chaplain
Irreverent, out of excuses so
You became my reverend
Without time, so we’ll do anything less.
Insist me wear your dress
Up in facial rhetoric
Clowns to the gown
The way we were speaking remember it?! It can’t be too outré cant it can’t it-well, cant it?!
Insomnia is.
On a breast plate, the best place, I guess.
Castles of our imperfections
Like Driscoll’s Model of Reflection,
Beneath your hands, and canopy of sky
Say whatever you can never say
The best place to be…?
“Here,” so hear, but you lost me
Playing Star Ocean 3 till firstlight
Will…not.
Garden.
Extraordinary, muscles apprehend/correct the EQ-flawed IQ
Abysmal trenches if-fountains
Lusting, our impermanence
…the best place to live?
“Unafraid,” so you say
Cologne in a champagne glass
I’m scared to death to live,
And heaven’s filled with insomniacs
There’s (not) enough time
Always, waiting in line
Stretches of a thousands skin lie
Because one word can’t approximate the complexity, difficulty, personality withdrawal-subtle charms, undeniable gentry, overlying anxiety embedded within/throughout the echoing flat splat, wall space to yarns of halls; it’s art.
…will not.
Don’t be mean.
On the train, turquoise morning, going to the same place-going nowhere, but we’re far away.
Just maybe, we’ll meet up today?
And…it’s daylight, again.
© 2022, A. M. D’Angelo
