Tag Archives: books

Christmas Insomnia

Living on bright pink Benadryls and melatonin
to try to make half dreams
seem more real to try to get through the lonely
distant too hot too cold nights glowing
with those fake plastic plug-in candles
with bulbs that get too hot
for Christmas. Keep throwing
the covers back
to stop the sweat keep pulling them over
legs to warm naked toes. No amount of blankets
will warm hearts not even
an amount comparable to the Princess and the Pea.
Afraid to close eyes for what
demons hide behind eyelids. Afraid
to open lips
to pray or cry out
for what evil sounds await on sour
tongues. Dreams that are not dreams
at all but terrible memories
from the VHS tapes of last week
the last too quick touch
and dreams that are not dreams
at all but cringeworthy situations
that play out
in the deepest depths of minds.
Where has the World put it’s
ancient Choose Your Own Adventure books
from the Long Beach Island
library on the boulevard
with crinkled pages
torn covers
and bookmarked endings: hearts don’t hurt
between pages.

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New book day

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Yes, this is my year with Kerouac, but I admit, I’m gonna cheat on Kerouac for a few weeks and read Stoner by John Williams. I can’t remember where I heard about this novel, a friend must have recommended months ago, so I mentioned it to my mother and she gave it to me for Christmas.

I haven’t read one of those novels that you just dive right into, become a part of the characters, and literally can’t put down the book, for a while. I don’t know if this will be one of those novels or not, but I think Stoner is becoming a new classic and I’m eager to learn from Williams what makes a new American classic.

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A love letter to Kerouac

MY DEAR JACK,

You will always be there for me. Your eyes dark and frozen in glimpses of still and silent mostly grayscale photographs timeless in how much wisdom and struggle I know are behind those solid eyes and I can, I can feel the sadness too.

But Jack, you can’t break my heart, can’t make me cry, can’t reach out to push me away, can’t lie to me, can’t outrun me, can’t tell me things to try to helplessly impress me…

You belong among the Big Sur mountains, among the pine needles of the evergreen trees fresh and those fallen. You are there among the golden and gray sunset in the harbor in San Fran. You’re here somewhere too. Your thoughts lining the shelves of my room, memories bound together sewn with some of my own.

I can lustfully daydream about your gentle touch the brush of the back of your hand against my cheek. You would have been a sweet, sweet heartbreaking lover. Those dark eyes, your rare smile.

You passed away many years before I was born, but I love your writing. It speaks through me. I live through it. I have never been so drawn to something before, never been so inspired and moved to act and pick up a knapsack to just GO to the woods. Not looking back.

Like a field of fresh black-eyed susan’s, a warm cable-knit scarf bundled around my neck, a hot cup of tea with biscuits and sweet marmalade still warm, you remind me of good things.

Jack. Mr Kerouac. These are my love letters to your writing, to who you were everyday of your life from the famous to the fallen, the what was then that can’t ever be now and to all you stood for and carry on to be.

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