The Narcoleptic Insomniac

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The Narcoleptic Insomniac

Spawned by laconic and indifferent novelists, I did not know that writing would become my profession until a poem composed on a chilly, wet October evening moved an acquaintance to tears. That poem was not written by me, but it was nonetheless inspiration enough to cause me to submit a succession of works to my college literary magazine. Years later, after the restraining order expired, I decided to make this my profession, despite the lack of any expression of enjoyment or understanding on the part of my few, but avid, readers. I only hope you find this as fulfilling as I. All posts © 2009-2010 All rights reserved. Use without permission will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

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  • haiti & hate

    there is dust on your face and arms

    white cheeks, the makeup of debris

    needy eyes sunlight focused

    but dazed distant amidst fallen walls

    and heaped home wreckage

    that wishes to keep you

    who knows which others lie silent & below

    as arms strain to reach

    you remain impassive

    numb to words that cannot comfort

    amidst unyielding destruction

    outside and within
    —-
    these still forms once

    holding life’s essence

    will no longer bring good news

    filling motionless streets

    rising slightly as wheels

    find traction indifferent

    to substrate that

    yields and softens the road needlessly

    troubled by the lack of greater purpose

    berefit these people

    once proud sad resolute resigned

    will not know the hope of dreams
    —-
    lone hand raised, a man

    rising as though from sleep

    light-framed his rubble bed cradling another

    grimacing in pain or death

    there is enough wailing

    and we are happy to comfort

    the sadly seen distant suffering

    more immediate somehow

    than charity needed here

    by wandering dirty men

    wearing our faces and reeking

    of piss
    —-
    more noble to be the devastated

    than aimless poor amidst plenty

    compassion-stripping contrast

    and really we have no time for this

    my anger lives at your face peering up

    it has wronged me

    and i long to see it gone

    so no empathy escapes unexpectedly

    we all deserve to be killed

    by a large unanticipated

    tsunami of self-hate

    a temblor to wipe things clean

    —-

    and start again.

    Posted on February 6, 2010

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