Insomnia as a Metaphor for Weak Coffee
Insomnia tastes like watery coffee and midnight passion tea.

The kind of thrill that comes when you realize that
the yellow moon you swallowed the night before ripened
inside your womb and is now keeping you up at night.

I'm as empty as a suburban street corner at dawn.

Naked as a lamp post where the bulb flickers incessantly with a sharp hiss.

And pulling my lips across tepid teeth I suck on the rind of night.

Take two pills,
lay face up like a stone
haphazardly tossed.

Count lazy sheep as they wander in and out of my pale
retinas, though truthfully in this state I am more perplexed
by the neon sky of stars salivating dust onto the horizon of
my contemplation

than the act of submission
to my weariness.