Anything But God

We sprawled out on the splintering wooden dock
and fended off mosquitoes with laughing.
The bog, the scum, the flies--it was sunset and

I watched you in the gold of the dusk, as water spiders
skipped against the water’s surface.
Just the three of us.  You, me . . . and God.

You theorized and sermonized about life and death,
dying and rising--the only truth you knew.
You stared across the water, your blue eyes fixed on the unseen,

and recalled from your mind the great mysteries of the world;
if only everyone could see, you sighed, if only.
But, like Pharaoh, some had their hearts hardened.

What are dreams?  You told me they were visions from God.
What is pain?  You told me it was punishment for sin.
What is love?  You said it was momentary bliss before truth.
What is faith?  You said it was destiny for the chosen few.

Algae and sticks floated by.
Unaware of their Greater Purpose, bullfrogs
belched their stories, and you were content to see
God in the glimmerings of the sun in a pool.

I wanted to see my reflection in your eyes--to have one
gentle assurance.  But you could only practice your sermons
to the gnats and the crickets.

I wasn’t listening.
I was waiting for you to speak of anything
but God.
 
 

Insomnia

When you're afraid to fall asleep, you don’t.
You just turn into a carbon copy of yourself.
You ponder the art of dozing off, as if
it is something you learned once and
forgot.  Everyone sleeps.  Surely if you just relax,
you will too.

But the world changes when you can’t sleep.
What once seemed so normal--like the sound of a car
whooshing by--is suddenly terrifying, unexpected.

The red glow of the alarm clock, the steady click
of the heating system, the never ending
space that pervades every corner of your room;
these things become monsters.  Monsters in their
simplicity.

It’s not the boogeyman that’s scary anymore--
but it’s the fact you can’t sleep.
It’s worse than dying.  Not sleeping
is withdrawal from that one drug every person
is addicted to--the opiate of drowsy delight,
the momentary separation of your mind from
yourself--and without that,
what are you?

You're left alone, forced to be your own company,
trapped in the confines of your own body.
The frustration of mortality throbs
through your veins.
You can try to be comfortable,
but nothing feels tangible anymore--
even the rising sun seems a mockery.

So the world brightens around you, and you
pull your blankets to your chin.
But it’s too hot, too cold,
and you can’t get rid of
the feeling that bugs are crawling on your
toes.  Yeah, that's insomnia.
You're so tired.
But you're too afraid
you won't fall asleep,
so you don't.