Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

4am, not a wink or partial dream.
The thought of sleep keeps
dripping in between synapses,
braindrops echo off the frontal
lobe, ears hear the voice of myself
talking incessantly drip drip drip,
curving 'round bends, watering
the hems of a decaying garden,
autumn leaves blanket tree roots,
the hoot of an owl asking who
is responsible for the seasons?
Who caused this constant grey
day not yet light? Soon, the white
snowfall, pure white, moonlight
blinding off a reflection and all the
thoughts, the constant thoughts,
the interjections, dissections of
partial truths mixed with lies and
I am wide awake counting years
like sheep, wondering where they
went after jumping over decade fences,
intent on perfecting the ideal run-on
sentence, life without parole, electric
chair, firing squad, god oh god what
the hell is this hell? Who can tell me
how the time has passed when nothing
lasts but ideas? The view from the window
seems a bit clearer after I cleaned off the
caked on nicotine streams, a beam of light
from the street pleads, please go to sleep,
please go to sleep, please please please
and there is no recourse, no force to make
me learn to pray, to crack kneecaps on
the concrete slab and there's a drab dismal
sensation floating inside the worms of the mind.
Isn't it funny how the brain looks like Medusa's
hair, all twisted like snakes, oh for crissake
when will this stop? Each thought rising
like steam from the pavement, the arrangement
of many years muddled into one or none and
all and I fight the walls I built with bayonets,
wrap the pounding brain with a tourniquet,
sweat hot-flash fiction into the stories I once
experienced, all running together like a discordant
rainbow all messed up with the colors seeping
into one another, lovers here then gone, another
brother dying, oh god, I hope not, but he's
sick and where is my daughter? She's out in the
cold night storm, wondering whether morning will
come, deaf and dumb to the signals from an
approaching train, perhaps, oh god, I hope not.
The thoughts, the nihilistic thoughts, the fear where
dreams should be, instead, the deadening music
of rain rhythms, one year, the next year, the next
and the next, and I was only sixteen but I carry the
rapes in my belly, fire surging up to my chest,
my heart in a marathon race. What is this place?
Why am I here? I have no fear of being stabbed
by ancient screams or drenched by dirty pounding
torrents! I'm not afraid. I'm tired. I'm just tired, that's all,
examining the fall through the mist of glass, wide awake
during the overcast night but morning comes soon,
the moon will put away his lamp, blazing sunlight hot
upon my brow and then I'll try to finally sleep somehow
while listening to clangs and bangs of garbage trucks
taking away remnants of glass and debris labeled
yesterday and taken away to be dropped into landfills
where we'll never be able to dig them up again, notes
on napkins and envelopes, important notes with phone
numbers and names, notes to ourselves to make sure
we get it all accomplished and sometimes I feel my
brain is an accomplice to a life of crime because I should
be executed for thinking so much. At least, then, I'd get
some sleep. Keep these estimations of value of what I say
to yourself, OK? We wouldn't want the neighbors to suspect
I'm insane. They have better garbage than I do, anyway.
More empty champagne bottles, more boarding passes,
but what do I care? Dare me to tell you and I will.
It's 4am and I wish I had a pill to knock me out.
No wait. It's 5am now. It took me an hour to shout
about these confusions. Insomnia isn't for sissies.
I'm telling you that. Again, I plead, please keep all
this under your hat. Don't tell a soul, OK?

Please consider entering this to a dramatic monologue contest. Please.

68degrees

Wow. Do they have such contests? I didn't know.

I think I'll probably read it aloud at the next poetry reading I go to, however it's so fricking depressing, I wouldn't be surprised if the audience was noticeably moved.... and they all get up and leave. Haha.

Thanks very much, 68degrees.

I had to do something while I was lying here unable to sleep so I figured I'd write it out. I eventually fell asleep. I think I got 4 hours. Now to work.... looking for work is the hardest work there is.

68 is right.
This is wonderful, Doreen.
and how inspiring to actually write down the stuff that comes to me at unlikely hours. (mine consist mostly of puppet plays)

Or, maybe you could record yourself doing this?

this is more than a stream of consciousness, more like whitewater ....moving with ferocity
and as someone that has had bouts of insomnia, once, every night for six months, I can totally relate to both the denial of sleep, and to the wild connections made at 4 and 5 am

your secret ( ha) is safe with me

I too will often write, or read when I cannot sleep....as my persistent thoughts can drive me crazy...need to shut off the faucet, distract the determined brain that seems to gain momentum the longer I allow it free wheelin'....

whenever we uncork the bottled forces, by writing it down, and sharing it, I feel we are moving in the right direction....the alternative is a major explosion, and when we can actually do that, creatively connecting the dots, then we cannot simply be wasting time

so keep 'em coming

Thanks, Judih... Maybe I'll record it.

Thanks, Steve... I hope it has some intrinsic value as poetry, too. I tried to make it what I call "word music."



I'd love to read what comes to you both during the wee hours of the morning.

Doreen, sorry I neglected to mention the poem's artistic merit ( this is after all a poetry forum )
ha ha, well done !

and i will look through my stash for wee hour poems and post a few

I will PM you with a couple of places (theater websites) that would love to read your stuff. Most of them are free (always stay away from ANYONE who wants to charge a reading fee).

Any good actress would have a field day w/this stuff.

well done- liked this