Words are dry, meaningless

by jhon baker

Insomnia sufferers of the world unite, or at least get together as to not be bored in the wee hours of morning.
I’ve “suffered” from this malady for as long as I can remember, there must have been a time where sleep came easy and I awoke rested and spry, wasn’t there? In addition there are many poems that begin with the words – can’t sleep – or are about not being able to sleep. There are many tricks to falling under the spell of hypnos and with the exception of drinking warm milk, I’ve tried them all and most seem to work for a few days but all eventually stop working. The only cure it seems was to drink copious amounts of Jack or Johnny Walker or SoCo, those who knew me then will advise against this tactic tho especially as I am not even sure that I even slept, there are only periods of time where I remember nothing and awoke in places I didn’t remember being and all that implies.
I’ve also written profuse amounts of poetry and stories when I should have been dreaming, I would say it is a good time to write but there is always a lot of revision to clean up the mess that was the night before so I prefer to write in the day from when I start going on to when I finish while sometimes stopping for lunch or love.

words are dry, meaningless

words are dry,
expression faceless.
the ladybugs came here to die
on my window;
baking in the sun.

a hundred portraits
unhung,
composing city life.

walks along South Michigan
in Chicago;
children think I am homeless
and dirty.

find Buddha in the patrons .
find Buddha in the hall.
find Buddha on the front steps
of MOMA.
je suis beau!
find Buddha in me!

on these steps I ask for a light;
and I am
not thinking that I’m going to write this
a year later, or more, sitting at
my desk. where
ladybugs come to die
on my window.

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