Delirium

poem for the sleepless

I stay up until the grasswhistle.
A show so early you can only be late to 
the performance, there is much time to
absolved by the song of the grasswhistle.
~
It plays over railings
Into purple void, the lullaby
the leaking through valleys of blankets
And the grasswhistle riding its tributaries. 
~
It bickers between car horns, 
disobedient tires, skateboards, the yelling 
of the bodega guy, the flammable news
that still can’t seem to engage the youth.
~
The sound of wind blowing through concrete,
the grasswhistle, is the spray of graffiti against
tombstones made of cement tree trunks
and the space between these stanzas.
~
Just listen.
~
See, there it was again.

¹art by Pragna Gaddamedi (@prgs.jpeg)

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Poetry Tip of the Day!

If you know me, you know I am a night owl to a tee. I love sleeping. It’s my favorite activity, but in a perfect world I would sleep on my terms. If the early bird gets the worm, I stay up for the caviar. All my best memories have been made between midnight and 4 AM. Staying up talking, writing until the sun comes up, closing out restaurants, and dancing into the wee hours of the morning are all reasons no one should ever miss these auspicious hours. However, my ideal schedule is completely incompatible with working full time. My compromise is that I stay up anyway. The consequence is that I start to hear the grasswhistle again.

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1. beast