That nefarious disorder that usurps my sleep every night holds the anchors above my head
And once the looming presence creates an unyielding uncomfortable feeling within me-
The anchors are dropped at once as I clutch my heart and watch my life flash by in intense but short clips reflecting off of my irises
Drowning in a waking nightmare consisting of life-altering decisions yet to be made and a ubiquitous, haunting past that never fails to ascertain me, despite the innumerable heat runs I've taken to escape it's chokehold
Wistful versus Wishful thinking keeps an insomniac busy at night- contemplating the universe's unhealthy obsession with showering sullen loads upon my already feeble stature and yearning for a change to form like how the leaves just fled the trees they were accustomed to for so long
Ruminative habits that not even the toughest of diamonds could scratch to erase them from my routine nightly thinking
But I am constantly torn between resenting every constant and vowel meant for you and all of my feckless attempts at achieving perfection
And optimistically hoping for a banishment from all negativity, and acceptance of the elation spreading faster through the airwaves of people open to recognition and reversal
But my anchors are breaking through the floor boards as my weary but restless eyes scan the page for errors and I am cautious in giving them a tug out of fear of a perpetual fall that insists on torturing me through an insomnia-flavored death-to-be
What is to ensue after countless hours of wistful and wishful thinking?
Am I to write until the moisture leaves my fingertips and the blood rushes to my head because my amygdala is housing all of my aggressions and fears, close to explosions upon anything in my vicinity?
Or am I to close my eyes and daydream of better, happier times to arrive at my front doorstep sometime in the near future?
But my overactive thoughts stimulate several situations that could play out, and the ones I decide on making permanent effects in the future are the ones that end with me crying and hopeless
Maybe the life of an insomniac is even worse than people think- it is not the fact that we do not sleep that unnerves us, it is the fact that when we do not sleep, we overthink, and when we overthink, we depress ourselves with all of the outcomes and possibilities that can arise from the most trivial decisions to the most climactic ones
My anchors act as my comforter and hold me tight during my REM sleep when the vivid and electrifying dreams and nightmares play simultaneously like a horror film I am entrapped in
I hone in on the conflict and I am taken away in shackles into dreamland, a world worse than reality
And I cannot lucid dream, so my control, my grip on the direction of the thoughts slips away and the fabrication of my unconscious takes over until I wake up every hour on the hour breathless and sweating
I awake at all the wrong times, on all wrong sides of the bed
And falling back asleep is a difficult task to carry out each time, because of the lack of melatonin that seemed to be crossed of the checklist of necessities of being born
And so the cycle ensues for the next 5 hours
And I continue this routine day in, and day out
This is the life of an **Insomniac.

we gathered in a lighted tower
of a lower Manhattan promontory
seminarians listen
to discursive ramblings
of bank industry experts
on the finer points of
Basel II
Tier Three
op risk

towards a better better
best practice
we pique our ears to hear
the critical
dispassionate annunciations
of expert expertise

a panel of practitioners
a panoply of knowledge
networking opportunities
and hands on insight
we are granted
institutional affirmation
nesting warmly
in a corporate cocoon
13 flights up
off West Street
10 bucks a seat
30 for non-members

we settle
in soulless white rooms
divided by long
horizontal wall panels
bleached of all humanity
visualizing phantasmagoric vistas
of changing regulatory landscapes
in strait backed chairs
resembling the blanco armor acrylics
of Imperial Stormtroopers

on watch for Black Swans
the panel's moderator incants
if one appears
we told you so
if one fails to materialize
risk managers
have earned their dear keep
seminarians chuckle

the dais backdrop
a massive SONY plasma screen
stares down seminarians
with ruminative bleakness.
no digital blips or power points
will convey any meaning
turn a clever phrase
sprout a statistic
paint a pretty picture,
just the plain spoken word
of highly credentialed
speakers with bios
many paragraphs long
confers license to speak

the screens blackness
a perfect counter point
to a rooms spare whiteness
and pedestrian furbishment
save a day glow Warhol Print
of the heroic MTV moon walker
and a predominant majority
of Far Eastern attendees

questions from the floor
drizzle the panel
tied tongues
use tight selective language
of lexiconic colloquialisms
speaking a queer vernacular
of erudite bombastic bunk

questions are mumbled
with increasingly greater acuity
dancing around bank meltdowns
and global economic catastrophes
with a self anointed smug absolution
and poignant failure to acknowledge
a failures paternity
pink elephants and 800 pound gorillas
remain dance hall wallflowers


to be sure language evolves
the moderator instructs
as regulatory guidelines converge
to address market flux.
Is everyone comfortable with
the current acronyms
we devised
to describe our
present situation
best laid plans
and timely initiatives
to safeguard capital adequacy
and institutional solvency
right here in our own
little tower of Babel?

My tie is too tight
to clear my throat
I can't ask my question
of apples to apples
dust to dust
and oranges to tangerines
while the halting speech of others
is broken up
by timely ring tones
from Jeopardy
and Gene Autry's
Don't Fence Me In

every once in awhile
a chuckle is raised
we laugh about the score
in this inside baseball game
of capital requirements
regulatory Nexis
and smart *** traders
plying bold arbitrage strategies
blowing us back to Basel I
after the global bank implosion
oh the hilarity
of credit crises and crashes
the jokes on us
the joke-sters R US

some begin to
urgently finger blackberries
sending confident commands
to be dutifully carried out
by young back office minions
impatiently waiting
hanging on every word
of unintelligible texts
eagerly biding time
to take
the solid senders warm seat
in these cold blanched rooms

Closing the seminar
the moderator's summation
offered the thought
that her fondest hope remains
scenario analysis,
stress testing
and the new
emerging paradigms
will become
embedded in
risk management
best practices
and that fewer regulators
will be needed to regulate
and we will continue
to be employed
(nervous chuckles)
clapping
reception for networking
to follow
questions
and
cocktails
in the next room

I move quickly
to fill my plate with brie
English tea crackers
and a smoky tangy cheese.
A fellow seminarian
approaches me.
He smiles and asks,
Whats your name?
What do you do?
I tell him
and ask the same.
He says he is 50
and unemployed.
He sounds unsure
and frightened.
I bite into a chunk
of exotic cheese.
******* crumbs fall
onto the lapel
of my freshly pressed
pinstripe suit.

Music Selection:
Miles Davis
Red China Blues

jbm
NYC
03/03/09

I came to the place
you were last known to be

On the anniversary of the date
you were last seen

I bring offerings
of long stemmed
dried flowers
accented with
baby breath and
a clay fired cross
tinkling and jouncing
in a clear concave
glass vase

Gathered from the
floral arrangements
of memorial services
for dearly beloved
kindred and friends

My oblation,
aged, simmered,
distilled with the
resonance of tears
and cured by
ruminative airs, now
fully curated with
the balm of time

On this solitary
Monmouth beach
the March Lion
roars snow squalls
intermittently blowing
away the cold sunshine
from the Saturday sand

Sounding a
somber reminder
of the rise and fall
of life's tempests

We hope for beach days of
Sun kissed faces and
warm limbered bones
reposed in blessed rest
upon blankets and chairs

Yet today the sun can’t
temper the numbed
fingered wind chill,
placidity escapes
into the sonic rush
of skirling gusts
lifting, splashing,
cracking crescendos
of building waves

Inert gulls flock
near a black jetty
their feathers
a taught plumage
trimmed to deflect
natures howling whirl
their silent shrieks
swallowed by
the days bluster

Crossing the beach
I cradled the vase
in the crux of my arms

My shoes taking
on sand, the cross
clanking a toll
against the thin glass
as the dry blooms
whisper winded secrets

As I approached
the ebb of the sea
a furious gust of wind
splintered some of the flowers
into a flurry of  swirling petals
while lifting two long stemmed
yellow roses that land
intact near the ocean's edge

Like frenetic sparrows
the liberated petals
flew into the ocean
settling into a
contented pool
anointing the water
by softly grazing on
supple undulations

Lifting a yellow rose
from the vase...
I touched the thorn
but it had lost its sting

Setting the rose aloft on
the wings of an
insistent onshore wind
it took flight toward the sea

Landing on a placid pool
gently rising and falling
on the relaxed roll of the water

It mounted each gentle curl
moving with an easy buoyancy
over each rippling crest

Navigating the friendly sea
with the skill of a
seasoned mariner
plying forward
eager to meet
the next tender roll

It is thought by some
that my daughter
walked into the sea
on a lonely
March night
at this very spot

Yet the two
long stem roses
that leapt from the vase
still gently lay
at the water line
as if placed on a table
by lovers during
an intimate dinner

Despite a stiff
onshore wind
the waves do not
swallow the flowers
but ease them back
toward the vase
planted on the shore

I gathered stones
and shells to fill the
emptying vase,
as I grabbed a handful
at the wash line
my foot was subsumed
by a wave

I was startled
by the bite of the
frigid water,
shaking my
reverie
arousing an
affirmation of
disbelief that
Meggie surrendered
her soul to the sea

On this cold
windswept shore
a Nor’easter
creeps its way
up our fragile coast
begging an uncertain
malevolence

I stand in your
footsteps

Uncertain
of what I should do

Unable to pray
the words bespoken
In my heart

I am here, frozen,
frail, frigid, flummoxed

My aching fingers
beg me to go
I release a final
white carnation

It springs to the sea
I pick up my vase half
full of shells and stones

I commend the two
long stemmed
yellow roses
marking the
advancing
waterline

I resolve to return
some sun kissed day
with blanket and chair
in the company of
friends, brothers,
sons and daughter

Music: Fleet Foxes, Grown Ocean

Meaghan Elizabeth McCallum
was last seen on video at
Pier Village Long Branch NJ
on March 11, 2015
#FINDMEG

Long Branch
3/11/17
jbm

Your hair is entangled with timeless experiences where primitive phantoms screech through antique hallways.
I have perceived those morose paintings which depict sadness and loss to such an extent that the air in the room can be sliced with a bread-knife.
Ah, there is something ruminative about olfactory observations, where dust commands unspoken attention to matters which have never been disclosed.
I fully rest in the City of Boston. Do you know why? Because those from Massachusetts know how to cook a breakfast whilst architectural brilliance splays her legs across streets of apprehensive humidity.
I will be there before the past echoes her burnt offerings to foresight.
Let’s go to bed now.