I smell burning lights of neon and blue.
It's Christmas, they say. Inkblots have formed
their own sentences, helping me
write.
In the midst of this slow night,
I swear I am right.
And I pull Kafka from the shelf
because I want to hear him talk.
I am my own vermin, and we can be random
together.
I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I love you.
Shall we dance despite your limbs?
Samba's playing, I am left staring at you
then back at him,
and right back at you, right where you stood
tiptoeing as you reach the topmost corner of the
cupboard.
You know I never hide any can of insecticide, Kafka,
because I get it, you'll wither.
But I love you, Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I'm a bit colorful with a drag of dirt.
I'm a bit Spanish when I shake my hips.
I turn French right before midnight.
I lose sight and might when the clock chimes
two in the afternoon -
I become just by looking at you.
Because I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I.

When, instead of cozying in bed
I wander out there with Kerouac,
Imagining that I am Kerouac
Or some slave who walks upright;
Or a priest without a crowd
With hands and feet tied.
When, instead of snoring like hell,
I am left unimaginative by some;
I am making disgusting Love with shadows unknown
And remain pinned against the wall.
I am some nine year old senile who wets her bed
in fear and disbelief.
Lights flicker and then fade
And the switch becomes a button pressed to send
Someone in raving comfort.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
Even when night becomes noon.
Nightmares haunt me no more but I
Am left haunted by my bed.
Sheets crumpled by tossing and turning.
My bed does not recognize my warmth.
Voice recordings and constant tweetings
Pump blood to my Über active head.
Sleepless nights are well received as my body
Succumbs to sleep.
I live in a different world with five hundred other names
And the ten thousand other Me’s are all in disarray.

(And when the clock chimes at one, two, three ‘til way down six,
There’s a carnival of sorts with hair strands flailing like
Seven sets of arms.)

I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And wetting my bed is not a Sin.
I am sinful beyond recognition, as my bed is my witness.
I have had different beds
But to me, they’re all the same.
Some, soft; others, too hard
Or covered in satin, exaggerated by the moonlight. Some, made of wood
While others, with tight springs.
Water’s absurd but so is steel.
Double padding, triple linings, four feet, at times, none;
There’s the car, the guest room, the floor, hospital bed,
A seat next to a complete stranger ---
I make my bed before sleeping
And leave it when I’m done.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And I jump on the bed at midnight.
I am not a stranger to morning tides and the morning shows on TV.
I’m not a stranger at all, no,
And when I sleep, I sleep in peace.
Stranger things have happened
Noons and sudden weekends are no way sleep - inducing; I am left believing
That nights and days dance in my
Sleeplessness.

I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
“**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”

I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.

Amidst this,
I find you sleeping,
Cuddled softly in your
Curls and sheets
of warm midnights
And moonbeams.
When all that’s left
Are miniature versions
Of yesterday,
Facing today.
I love you.

I love you
And I cannot stay put
Not even for a day
That I don’t see
Your eyes shut beautifully
As would one’s dreams
Come true.

I love you and
When I say it,
It cradles me into temptation
Of not waking up again
Without you
By my side.

I love you more
When you say instead of none,
That there is me in you,
And you in me.

I love you
And you are more
Than sleep,
Than a dream.

Right before I called,
I imagined ---
is there anything left other than
Pages?
Pages yellow in time
and red ink becomes wine stronger than
your average cooler
that settles.
When bottles clink
and drown bubbles endlessly,
when the fiz dilutes memory
always fondled with friends.

Is there anything left
other than pages?

I have your fingerprint and the
scent of your hair fading
like your name in my eyes.

Nothing's left when stubs have
burned the last of crumpled letters
into ashes,
and the ember consumes
what I remember the most.