Insomnia | Instructions for Waking
Insomnia
I take my pill. I listen to the wind and my breath. The whirring of the fans could be a lullaby. I roll to my left side to better digest dinner. Will insomnia hit me tonight? Will the sand hit my eyes? What illusions will grace my eyelids, speared by light? Or are they, maybe, mayhem hallucinations of hypnagogia? A doctor couldn’t say.
The night moves on. My breath doesn’t soothe me. It gets later.
my dad on the couch
he stares at his phone, texting
the TV grumbles
Eventually the lights go out. My brain does not go out, but up into the airy fluid of rainbows, then down into the earth of twisting glittering snail lines. Arjuna didn’t picture this when he saw Krishna’s true form, did he?
I tell God to go away. Goddess, come back another day. Don’t wake me with a stream of prophetic light.
trumpets sound
but I have left my angel
for the birch trees
I wish I could summon rain to soothe me to sleep. This is an ever-awful mushroom trip to the underbelly of dreams. I am a prisoner of the Sandman.
grasshopper at night
lanterns glow hatefully
I want the stars
There is no moon tonight. What a pity.
quick breath, heated head
dreams of bugs coming to me
I don’t scream
If I could drop pennies on the ground as I wander through this forest! But Canada doesn’t make those coins anymore.
cardboard sunflowers
don’t show the way to light
now all we have is
the underworld ahead--
grab your Hermes and coins.
I remember that I have a court of teddy bears on my bed. I select one and curl around it like a comma. If I ever get a partner, I’ll need a separate bedroom just to wrestle with this illness. One could almost be wrestling in a garden of fly agaric.
Eventually, the Questing Beast approaches. It nudges my rusty armor and paws at my walking stick. Its nose bumps my cheek and I fall back onto the grass, trapped in Merlin’s crystals.
One day sleep will be a haven, not a heartbreak.
Instructions for Waking
Awake to air:
Remember your inhale.
There is a crowd around you
“Death, death!” it screams.
There is no crowd around you.
Inhale again.
Open the curtains!
There is no emergency but life--
The crisis of daily living.
How bittersweet tangible to
Take off your clothes.
Trust the day if you can since
Nobody will do it for you.
Check the time, check your shave,
check the dogs under your eyes
Note the rare grey hairs
Where will you be this time next year?
Oliver Leon Porter
(he/him) is an award-winning teacher, journalist, and poet. He is queer and trans. He has been a practicing heathen for nine years. He has been published in The Link newspaper, Frogpond magazine, and Eternal Haunted Summer magazine. You can find his complete list of works here: https://oliverlporter.wordpress.com/