Insomnia Poetry

I call this venting in different verses


I am more impressed with your fascination
of what I already knew
than the lessons you try to teach me

I feel this shows a real version of who you are

And yet . . . here you are
Preaching to the choir to hear yourself speak,
and not once have you shared your thoughts
on how life has graced you,
one minute at a time.

You pulled a trick, though.
I’ll admit it.
The crowd laughs and the joker smiles

It’s good to pretend, I know.

But remember something . . .
the later months of the year tend to be colder,
and you, with no one to warm the hand,
will sit by yourself


never truly revealed
never daring to watch the sunset
and too afraid of exposure

I think you forget one simple fact:
you may have been able to fool a few people

but you can’t fool the mirror


Cross-legged, right over left,
on an otherwise crowded bus out of Port Authority
she dangled her high-heeled shoe from the tips of her painted toes
and bounced her bottom leg
like a nervous twitch.

Her sunglasses pushed the amber-colored hair
away from her eyes
and exposed the fact that she rarely smiles.

She yelled into her cell phone.
“I don’t care where you sleep tonight!”

Meanwhile . . .

There is a commuting world around her,
stuffed on a train after a long day at work,
and listening to the accounts of pretty girl’s fallen love life.

“Good,” she demands.
“I don’t care where you go!”

A loud voice came from an angry man
sitting near the back for the bus.

“I don’t care where he goes tonight either, honey,
so long as he goes there fast
and you hang up the goddamned phone!”

There is a punishing minute in life,
which comes for everyone.

Hers is when she realized that not only did she feel stupid
but she actually looked stupid as well




Man always using the second floor bathroom:
I see you often enough to say hello, but I never do
I just look

No expression; just a blank stare without a welcome

I don’t care much for you,
or the way you degrade your secretary.
You seem to think people beneath your position
are actually beneath you in life.


To hell with your Rolex
I know more about that watch than you do.
Damn your Canali suits and put aside your wedding ring
Open your eyes
Because if you did
maybe then you’d see your wife
is sleeping with one of the nighttime cleaning supervisors



I don’t blame you for my position
I don’t blame the Monday’s,
or the long shifts for the way my body feels

I’m not complaining…

I don’t mind the way some look at me
and disapprove
My choice to look as I do
comes with the backlash of ignorance

To some:
the ink in my skin
or the rhythm of my speech,
is all I am

However, I am not limited to what
others see or think.

“That’s why we never talk.”

I am more than your social snobbery.

I am more than my blue collar,
the dirt beneath my fingernails,
and the manual labor,
which you seem to think makes me uneducated

I have an education…

I call it life on life’s terms.


At the service entrance of 10W 33rd St,
I stood beside a man whose morning ritual
was to down a fifth of vodka in one gulp.

Then he slammed the emptied bottle into the trash can,
followed by the thirst-quenched, “Ahhhh,”
and said, “Now it’s time to go to work.”

Every day, same thing
Monday through Friday, 8:45am

One of the shipping clerks from the building said,
“That shit is gonna kill you one day.”

About to open his bottle the man said, “We all gotta die sometime,”
and then he downed his drink.


“But that shit will kill you quicker,” said the clerk

He was wrong on that one.
It wasn’t the bottle that killed the drunk
It was the bus on Broadway and 28th St.

That’s what killed him.

I remember this when I look at you
Going the way you’re going,
I’m starting to wonder how long this life you live will last.

It’s hard to see you kill yourself

But I can’t stop you

So in the meantime…..

Stay away from 28th and Broadway.

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