He Giveth His Beloved Sleep
Heptonimus reported that where the liver was cold and yet dry to the touch there also one will find mysteries of behavior coursing in the blood and a great thirst for spirits and hunger for roasted poultry and fits of prolonged wakefulness which are wont to drive a man raving to the market that conducts business through all the hours of the night, there to slake his great thirst and extract currency from machinery as sleepless as himself. And Bobagorus has reported a stern and consternated orchard bachelor of some fair and distant isle whose climate is said to be salubrious and beneficient for gout, maladies of the spleen, and various ailments related to overmuch wakefulness owing to terrible infestations of perturbed memory and ill luck with wymyn and affaires of the heart. That man, alleges Bobagorus, has not enjoyed a healthful repose in seven years time. Paprika, bananas, melons, pocket watches, rooster paws, creamed corn, Frito chips, and pipe tobacco, each in immoderation, saith Fistomeles, contributes to the late night sorrows of men in northern climes. Where the stench of melon is overweaning, quoth that sage, There must the prudent man exercise great caution, lest he meet the dawning of the day with yet open eyes. Beware also the meat of birds growing to a weight of greater than 35 stone, lest dreaming be of considerable disorder and stimulate wakefulness.
This is the season of raging insomnia, of the blank calendar stretching beyond the New year. The head running all night long, tracking clock. Lord this and Lord that. While you are lying there dreaming I am slumped on the floor, taking orders in a language I still don't understand. Open all night. Give me a sign, please, don't just point at the moon. Be explicit. Don't just say 'salamander' and expect me to figure things out. I keep hearing astronauts in my right ear, crying for help, lost, the transmission breaking up. I see tumblers, flip, flip, flipping, tiny little foreigners, future cripples. And then...ai-yi-yippee-yi! What is that you are plucking sister, a harp? Very nice. Marking off the hours with an egg timer and a metronome. Even gravity requires the participation of a willing subject. Or does it? What I know about gravity wouldn't fill the back of a match book. When you drive around any small town in the Midwest you'll invariably notice that the biggest and newest buildings in town are always funeral homes and banks. That woman in the gas station restroom is having a baby who shall be called Anastasia and she shall be the queen of all she surveys and her boyfriend shall drive the red convertible in which they both shall eventually be buried. Cue singing of angels. Take a step back there, Junior, and give me some room to breath. I've lived 40 years without putting any squirrel in my mouth and I'm not about to start now. All the tiny sounds pleading their case in the silence of the early morning hours. The little pops and tings and murmurs of the house laboring through the night, the furnace kicking in. Look at the way Junior Wells grips that harmonica. Look at that beautiful blue suit.
The Malliest Mall of Them All
First I worked in this place that sold French fries and pretzels, for this Vietnamese guy who called himself Jose. Then I moved down another floor and worked at this place that sold nothing but total shit, no vision, none whatsoever. Plastic frogs that croaked and paddled about in a tank of water, big, hideous rugs with polar bears and lions and Bob Marley. Then it was on to a shell place where honest to God I once worked an eight-hour shift and never had one person set foot in the door, not even any of the Japanese or the old people from South Dakota. That got fucking old in a hurry so it was on to a place that sold nothing but lava lamps and Star Wars shit. Then a candle place that also sold lousy Green Bay Packers stuff. I eventually ended up in a cheesy little religious kiosk where I sat there on a stool and did wordsearch puzzles while the Jesus plaques, crosses, and Bible verse bookmarks gathered dust. That was pretty much it for me and retail. I'm a graphic designer now.
Query
Do you know someone who has had a poem or a literary text tattooed on their body? Have you or has someone you know written a doctoral dissertation on Rob Schneider? Drop me a line and I'll buy you lunch: bzellar@citypages.com
2:25:40 PM 
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