Insomnia

"Nothing is more bourgeois than to be afraid to look bourgeois."

—Tom Wolfe (The Painted Word.  Stated in regard to Andy Warhol.)

Insomnia

Dedicated to Jessie Rae, an amazing singer, songwriter. We are so happy we spent the evening getting to know you. You are such goodness. Hoping she will read this and feel something:

She is so confused,

A thin track of this indigo light value

in the where that was in my

rusted heart

with no language or currency

crossing breezes,

and I can't believe,

I wish I could revive,

strange I am still awake,

then pleasures so

much in common, these

thorny coral planets swims closer,

dangerous, reaching deep,

blood-slower than a close dance

in a that Boston bar.

I was just a tourist, at Toast,

Not even a tourist, just passing through,

and too eager to catch

less than a glance from her,

than distinguish beyond this feeling

sight, a cliff,

but this would be safe

our masks fallen off to the sides

Sitting in a theater

praying with breath

held through the heck, back door

Chance and

to look again after diving, and so filled,

navigating thinnest divides of skin

Tangled vines blind,

all that shit, trusting values

and use situations complicate by these

currents,

forced air, but I,

can't believe,

wholly absent

yet conscious

and wanting you.