Poem for Sunday, May 24, 2009

Bukowski's Advice to an Insomniac

The rain drips
(drip)
(drip)
like Chinese water torture
from God

such a lingering process
for an ephemeral soul
(drip)

you smoke
a cigarette
scratch your bug bite and
(drip)
ponder a few things:

what happened to Amelia Earhart
how volatile is the sun
do sirens have large lung capacities

and when it
becomes too much
(drip)
go inside and
go to fucking sleep