I have not slept in days.
Today marks somewhere
between one to two weeks
Where I have not found rest.

I have seen the sun rise
And seen the sun set
More times than I would like.
I've seen the bright light of
The Luxor from the strip,
Shining into the night sky,
A beam to the stars that I have
Daydreamed of following -
Maybe then I'd find
A nice place to rest.

But I've grown restless
Trapped in this ****** city,
Where sin is encouraged
And fuels the economy,
And I don't want to be here
Anymore.

I have seen the neighbors through my window,
Few pulling into their driveways
At the crack of dawn,
While others leave at the same time.
The same woman across the street,
She steps onto her front steps
Desheveled, hair a mess
Takes a seat and lights a cigarette
Every morning at 6 am.

I have memorized the textured ceiling,
The wood lines of my dresser,
The precise timing of the air conditioning,
And the time that my family wakes up.
They prepare breakfast for themselves,
Knowing that I am asleep,
And leave just a few hours later.

I suppose this shouldn't be
much of an issue -
It's summer, after all.
But I have not found rest.

Even when school was in session,
I never got more than a few hours,
And I survived just fine in the day
But now I get nothing,
Zero, zip.

And nothing makes sense.
And everything moves
In slow motion.
And my thoughts are intrusive.
And nothing makes sense.
And I'm paranoid
Of nothing at all
And nothing makes sense.
And I just want to rest.

rainy season in the tropics
rain
rain
till the taste of rain is in your soul
like that grain of sand in your shoe
that you can never shake out
that forever grinds on your soulmeat

humid to breathing soup
and hot as a skillet full of thoughts you cant defend
watch em bounce round the walls of logic
seeking escape
seeking solace and finding none
incense ravished the room
with tropical far eastern scent
like a skillet full of poets lacking phrases

'center the thoughts
so much to do so little time'
utters the little man glancing at his wrist
where a watch is supposed to be
waiting for a train to a place
where he is supposed to be

'quick quick now
places to go
people to do'
but the hours seep by
and still he paces the rail side
waiting on a train who has already passed by

rain
hour after hour of hard driving rain
i sit in a doorway kindle shielded from the torrent
bickering within for each slow witted word
that stumbles out of my rain soaked mind
the damp has rotted my sense of direction
my sense of self
where do i go from here
this desolate beach in the rain
a mile or so up a lone figure moves slowly towards me
along the waters edge

i am alone
in the rain
rainy season in the tropics
rain
rain
rainy season in the tropics
rain
rain

the humana lady calls
and they say compassion has fallen the way
of chivalry

his mind a shatterbox of edges
his thoughts weary and dull
limp along like thorazine smiles
appearing one after another to be following him down the hall
begging him for semblance of inner peace
stop chasing me he whispers mock harshness to the darkness
hoping to frighten the thoughts away
he closes his door shutting out the dark hallway
and escapes to the exact center of light in his safe warm room

mind a shatterbox
full of slow motion detonations of thought and flashes of fragment memory
scary things in his head he keeps wrapped in wool sweaters and mittens
like little children sent out to play in the bitter cold
their voices scratchy with distance and time laughing at him
soon enough with runny noses they go home for cocoa and cookies
leaving him in the exact center of the room
as alone as he has been all night
all of his life
in the exact center of nothing
a shatterbox filled with mystery things
a broken man and his broken mind

he opens the door to the hallway
and with almost gentle grace steps slowly into the darkness
whispering fast prayers to protect from the fingerless hands
that reach but never grasp from the shadows
he moves up the hall to the cold floor bathroom
the chipped tiles are filthy with the tread of feet from up the hall
all the working men from the
burning fields and the crop to be harvested
their language is a song that he cherishes
but their eyes see too much of him so he hides from them

the night wears on as it always will
he repeats to himself that dawn cant be too far off
he only has to survive the silence of night for a little longer
survive the scary things just a little longer
his mind a shatterbox of broken things
protecting the world from the creature within

dawn has come and the new neighbor taps at the door
with the meal he was waiting for
he pulls the door open slowly and without a revealing word
takes the hot food and cakes
darkness is gone to sleep somewhere
hopefully far far  away
shatterbox filled with sleepy things
now hunger isnt a companion

*i knock at his door at dawn
and slip the bag of food into him as light
begins to creep into the world
this is his world
each new neighbor passes the torch to the next
'make sure the old man eats
the mans son pays the bill at the store
and they leave the meals at the door
but the old man almost never leaves that room'
i wish i could do more for him
but they tell me that he is happier alone
i never have been happier alone