I Can't Sleep

I can’t sleep. I can’t

even begin to close

my eyes and enter

the slumber that I 

am so undue. I am

not asleep as I am 

a sinner. I am not 

asleep as I have 

poisoned my body

with caffeine and 

sex. Drugs and 

endless endless

booze. That’s why 

I can’t sleep. 

I can’t dream. I can’t 

dream because I

can’t sleep. You know

why I can’t sleep. If I

can’t sleep, I can’t

begin to imagine a 

better time, a better

arena for myself. I 

can’t see myself with

a beautiful girl. In a 

beautiful car. I can’t

imagine myself in

anything short of 

mediocracy. 

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe

because this poem is stifling. 

This room is stifling. It’s not the

heat but the lack of imagination,

swarming like shadows on a sun

dial. Like foxes on children. Like

words on this page. I can’t see

this getting any easier. I can’t see

this page getting much more full. 

I’m choking.

I can’t live. I can’t live because I can’t breathe, and you

know why I can’t breathe. It’s hard hard to imagine 

anything other than this. I can’t imagine anything other

than a white page filling with black words. Like immigrants

to the new world, forced by rebellious, profit hungry 

fingers. I can’t live because this poem can’t live. I can’t

live because I can’t sleep, and dream. If I can’t dream, what

chance do I have of dreaming to be published?