Goodnight, Pumpkins; G'day, Wombats Some nights I don’t want to sleep
but I don’t want to do anything,
except listen to my brain fizz
like cartilaginous alka seltzer.
Some nights I wanna go wander
skitting past the orange-lit streets
(I bid you goodnight, Pumpkins,
and settle on a bench in Central Park
where I shall sit and sip
mint-flavored Snapple ice tea.)

Some nights I just want to
lie back
rest my head on something soft and fluffy
Vedge
and allow my fizzing brain to be entertained
by pictures on the TV screen
(unless Goddamn Hollywood Video
closed at midnight,
Diurnal Corporate Motherfuckers.)

Some nights I want to squeeze a living body
and suck a plushy breast
(instead I just rub my nipple)

Or some nights
I gotta keep writing my research paper on Troubadour Poetry
and sleep only after the sun rises
and I’ve completed 18 pages
and seen Bongwater (I thought that the crazy red headed girl was very sexy
and I thoroughly enjoyed Jack Black’s musical ecological-hippie character)