6ers

Sleeping is apoetical, a front    
for those whose minds are clean, undisturbed
by what they say or mean or blurb, or blurbed
yesterday. I hate the way I hate the sleeping—safe
in their bastard bedchambers. I may be a cunt.
What else should I do, if not bring down the state?

Today I woke at four. I do this in the sick world.
Poet as lymphatic system: to be swollen
and tender. Galaxies, too, fling wide when hurt.
Some dying stars will mad pulse, ungirding
all to broadcast particulate light like it were a thing
not a gasping. Writing the ghosts, am I blackhole then?

Insomnia is twenty-first century shorthand for periodic
remitting hatred of the self (there *is* the day), or else
it is past millennia to wrestle from the shelf
a book or begin my epic sprawling novel of
inner largesse—and this, longhand. Some sick-
nesses collapse once manifest. Like love.