I have seen seconds encircle the night, one at a time
So often within the twinkle of an eye
Waking me to wander from the deepest slumber
Into places where my spirit seeks
The moon on high

Seconds lay waiting like butterflies of innocence
Passing silently without any regret
Until a stroke of midnight rings in so boldly
What is nothing becomes that
You cannot forget

I close my eyes on sleepless nights; listen to the sky
Laughing and smiling as if it understands
Why seconds encircle the night, one at a time
Then appear so innocent while I lie here
Under their command

Passing seconds can change into minutes, then hours
While you wait within the twinkle of an eye
To wake up and wander from the deepest slumber
Into those places your spirit seeks
To see on high

Let the bird sing
The natural world is awakening
Blossoming
Glistening
Shining
In the morning light

Things are ever changing
No one knows where to stop

Let the earth be
The frost is cold on the ground
Melting
Changing
Shining
In the morning light

Things are ever changing
No one knows where to stop

Let the crickets chirp
The night is young
Darkening
Quieting
Closing
In the moon light

All to start again
In the morning

My beating heart, torn to shreds
beats only for you.

Once you were,
the reason for its beat.
now you are the reason,
for its agonizing defeat.

How can one muscle,
hold on so long.
even when from my sight,
you have forever gone.

Tears have dried,
but my heart still bleeds.

Every moment from which
you are missing,
I feel myself tearing.

Falling, lost, wondering.
two as one we were,
connected in mind, heart,
essence.

Estranged my soul now is.
wondering forever it calls
to the half so brutally torn.

Its tattered arms wave,
reach, stretch,
attempt closure to the
immeasurable.

Seared, scorched, beaten
faithful to the end.

It will carry on.
My beating heart, torn to shreds.


*JCM 11/10/10

It’s Tuesday again—not a clue what the date is.
It’s Tuesday.


A tikka curry is simmering on the stove.
There’s no wine in my paper cup (I used it in the food).
A refill it is, then— not too much— leave some for the guest;
nobody likes a drunken host.

I set the table:
two spoons (my guest insists),
two bowls (he’s messy),
a roll of toilet paper (he’s got style).

The elevator doors open—
I know this because they make an annoying choo-eet, choo-eet sound,
and I’ve been living in this ******* apartment
for longer than I can remember.

Footsteps echo through the corridor—
Oh, I’m so excited when he visits!
Even the little cows on the kitchen curtains are smiling.
Hope he enjoys the curry.

The doorbell rings twice – such an impatient little man,
but I do so enjoy his company.
I open the door and give him a hug;
he whispers in my ear, *Good evening, me.

My sock
caught a snag
and a single thread
unraveled.

Without a thought,
I pulled the strand

And now,
I am left
with nothing
but a pile of cotton

I have a terrible habit
of dragging my feet.

For months my hand was sealed off
in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings.
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.
You could tell time by this, I thought,
like a clock, by its five knuckles
and the thin underground veins.
It lay there like an unconscious woman
fed by tubes she knew not of.

The hand had collapse,
a small wood pigeon
that had gone into seclusion.
I turned it over and the palm was old,
its lines traced like fine needlepoint
and stitched up into fingers.
It was fat and soft and blind in places.
Nothing but vulnerable.

And all this is metaphor.
An ordinary hand -- just lonely
for something to touch
that touches back.
The dog won't do it.
Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog.
I'm no better than a case of dog food.
She owns her own hunger.
My sisters won't do it.
They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.
My father won't do it.
He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.

The trouble is
that I'd let my gestures freeze.
The trouble was not
in the kitchen or the tulips
but only in my head, my head.

Then all this became history.
Your hand found mine.
Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.
Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.
They dance with yours.
They dance in the attic and in Vienna.
My hand is alive all over America.
Not even death will stop it,
death shedding her blood.
Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom
and the kingdom come.

Take up the insomniac’s burden
So sleepless and yet not tired,
Look not up to your bed.
For there is nothing more we desire.
We live in simple contradiction,
At day, the city hums it’s lullabies
But here we are. Awake,
Forced to endure those sleeper’s sullen cries.

Take up the insomniac’s burden
To never feel again,
The patience in that persons eye
And you thought there’d never be an end.
They wonder why we don’t sleep
You see..us insomniacs are all the same
In some way there’s no getting over
The hurricane after the rain.

Take up the insomniac’s burden
A war of raging peace
Still awake, our soft hearts breathe irregularly.
It’s frustrating. To say the least.
To know that you won’t be the same
At least not anytime soon
To know that person’s gone forever
And all she left for me? The moon.

Take up the insomniac’s burden
We live just night by night
Some of us..nothing but ****** romantics
We’re just attack dogs without their bites.
We sit and over think our plans
Plotting on how to set them in motion.
So go tell the city’s lovers we’re on our way
To assassinate. Their emotion.

If I could have your arms tonight—
But half the world and the broken sea
Lie between you and me.

The autumn rain reverberates in the courtyard,
Beating all night against the barren stone,
The sound of useless rain in the desolate courtyard
Makes me more alone.

If you were here, if you were only here—
My blood cries out to you all night in vain
As sleepless as the rain.