(I)nsomnia

Gloria Ad Insomnis.

Two-point-nine seconds. That's how long it takes to look at each corner of the bedroom ceiling in sequence as fast as possible. It was three seconds an hour ago. A screen flashes on. Thumb popped the phone lock without eyes on it. The four-point choreography of the password lives in the muscles now. Body doesn't ask brain for consent anymore when it hungers for distraction. There's something about beacons in the night that makes the darkness so much scarier. Without light, darkness may well be a thin draped veil, and all-encompassing sunshine is just right outside the gossamer. But from within the gradient, blue-light dandelion, the darkness outside of it is an endless sea. Sunshine is a myth and always has been. Lift the phone to the eyes, close enough for motherly scolding. The space behind them vibrates, ever so timorous, as the particles there are excited by the blue light beaming straight through wobbling pupils. Reading something started earlier–it's of no consequence. Actually, it's world news of much consequence, but consumed so passively, so vacantly. We have made a snack of uncomfortable truths. Fried away nutrition for unctuous doom. Crispity, crunchity tragedy so good you can't stop. Sopping brainfolds like sunflower oil-slicked jowls smack, smack, smacking away until the bag is empty and the soul is too. Taste breath, acrid from plaque build-up. A patina cultivated from a lifetime of evading responsibilities both banal and essential. Was going to brush the teeth hours ago. Thought it could wait for one quick net surf. Could do it now, but there is still so much net left to surf. Plan to forget to do it in the morning, so all is well. Check the pace again. Still two-point-nine seconds. Start to think about wondering then forget to wonder then return to the phone. White text appears to hover above the dark screen. Shimmers at the edges. Atomic agitation stirs a spectrum of phantom colors between the white and the black. Alphabet soup in a puddle of gasoline. Eyes lose focus then shut. Can still see the screen, see the silhouette of fingers tapping it. But the eyes are shut. Swear they are shut. Or maybe they just want to be shut. Wanting is getting these days, if you're willing to ignore all evidence to the contrary. Face appears in the corner by the door, familiar-feeling but surely a stranger's. A body follows, cheap sport coat and jeans. Look down at a desk, test paper on it. Name at the top isn't right but it is. Multiple choice questions with answers A-D; put an X in the right place. This paper has a letter E scribbled next to each row and crossed out. The face is over the shoulder, disapproving. Then darkness and dandelion. No face, no desk, no test. Flotsam back in the inky drink. Just a microsleep, like back in college. Just a nod and a jerk and a snap to attention. Hey, that's got a nice rhythm. A nod and a jerk and a snap to attention // A trod through the murk of the midnight dimension // Shoddy body go berserk about the hypertension // Heart gone, can't work in these kind of poor conditions. Could have been a rapper. White boy farm-grown in Illinois soybeans, no stake in the culture, but still. Have to find that old notebook with all those old bars in it. Probably something worthwhile in there, could get the dream going again. Find it tomorrow. It's tomorrow now. Go get the notebook, live the dream. But there is still so much net left to surf. Wife's sleeping besides. She wouldn't like being woken up by manic white boy raps. She likes opera and musical theatre. Never got opera. Or ballet either. Don't know why. Could say it's boring, but that's not it. It's a language barrier, maybe. Artforms that speak in languages too abstract for comprehension. Require too much heart, not enough brain. Gotta hit the brain or no dice. It's got the juice. It's got the fuel. It's running, always. Physics-defying perpetual motion machine burning out the cogs one snag away from systems failure. Gotta release safety valves. Gotta reroute kinetic energy. 3-2-1-GO. Two-point-nine seconds. FUCK. YOU. How hard is it to look at four goddamn corners? Pressure in the calves builds and snaps. Restless legs kick the wife awake worse than white boy raps. Didn't mean to. Never mean to. She always gasps and panics. Can't blame a body under attack, even if it's friendly fire. You spooked me. Sorry, had a nightmare. Aw, you okay? Yeah, all good. Okay, good night. I love you. Good night. Love you too. Good night. Good night. What the hell is a good night? The best nights are the ones you sleep through. Try being physically incapable of a good night. Try feeling like you'll never sleep again. Good nights are as much a myth as sunshine. Just ask dad. He's at the foot of the bed, familiar-feeling but surely a stranger. Spent his son's whole childhood hauling freight, breaking his body to put food on the table, spending nights aside a highway catching shit sleep in a box that gave him tinnitus, if he caught it at all. Bedroom's gone now. It's the inside of the old garage, rusted and held together by prayers. There was a low outcropping in back next to a berm. You could climb up it to reach the roof of the garage. Used to get up there and jump off, about twelve feet to the ground. Tucking and rolling, grunting through the bump, training to be a pro wrestler someday. Should exercise tomorrow, get the dream going again. Diamond Dallas Page debuted in WCW when he was 35. Still got a year to get the body right. Sky's the limit. Title belt's in reach. Dad is crying. Begging this teenager rolling around in sheets to tell him he's been a good father. Don't know what to say. Traumas are still taking root. More traumas to come. Let's see if the tree bears rotten fruit by the time "Party Up" by DMX is hyping a crowd to watch suplex after suplex get that three-count and that title belt. Nod and jerk and snap. Dad’s gone. Body’s grown up again. 3-2-1-GO. Two-point-nine seconds. Whatever. It’s a stupid goal. Not even that. It's a thing to pretend is an accomplishment so this time doesn't feel like vitality wasted. Dad gave his body for love. This body is for Youtube and porn. Just like that, acknowledging porn exists invokes it on the phone. Can’t be helped. Bodies writhing on mute at 2x speed because self-love is a sprint. There's no attraction to the people or what they are doing to each other. The videos speak in an abstract language understood to get the dick hard. Maybe ballet does make sense. Have been known to give the White Swan a battement a time or two. One-handed port de bras goes from adagio to allegro till the big finish. Cue a vasopressin release as good as a shot of sleepytime tea. How hard would you have to cum to make an Ambien? A hit of Propofol? Might as well give an encore performance and find out. The second show goes down like a morning matinee. Worth it. Chafe tomorrow but sleep tonight. Words to live by. Heavy eyelids close and breathing slows and vibrating nerves settle to a hum. Relief is coming after five fitful hours. Feels like the brain is flipping an open sign to closed and shutting off the lights. Wait. One last order of business. 3-2-1-GO. Two-point-eight seconds. That’s a new record. Bet another point-one could get shaved off there with enough practice. Certainly can’t quit now when legacy is on the line. Sleep is for the dead. Gloria Ad Insomnis.

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