cloud shake supple form dew lands on misty flower wrinkles in the wind, fall under iron hot press rolls up over the side walnut stretch for top-shelf stuff reaching compromise with ease turn slow corners in empty fields fuss about in meadows of stars bring soft, rolling machines to halt sparkling drops on screens of vivid color artist hangs entropy on an invisible wall a nail and suspension by a string of atoms and galaxies, galaxies tumble each into mixing bowl of temporal whims, yesterday’s revisions; tomorrow’s schedules beat the terrain with a stick until it whimpers and submits consenting to its new ruler that wand of trickling rain pounds hard against a pulpit of earthy laughter notion falls still serenity takes its stand; refusing all other voices, since no other offers as much
he tossed back his shoulders ⠀ and shook angry fists at the insistence of the night ⠀ which washed over him ⠀ in a baptismal shower⠀
awakening cynicism⠀ dripping tortured postulations of fate ⠀ over all he had known ⠀ and could afford to call indifference ⠀ or assimilation of tranquility⠀
until the guardians of morning ⠀ withdrew rapiers of delirium ⠀ true to the spirit of revelation ⠀ and thrust the seed of salvation ⠀ into the sufferer’s soul⠀
delivering him ⠀ unto the doorstep ⠀ of the new day ⠀ with eyes afire, ⠀ longing to chase ⠀ the sun
“sleepless” from the book remission by Kevin Trent Boswell, available on Amazon.
remission by Kevin Trent Boswell
Author’s Note 1:
I wrote this piece in my twenties. I’ve struggled with insomnia since I was about eighteen. In my thirties, it became easier because I can manage it with medication.⠀
I tried all that sleep-hygiene nonsense. I did it correctly, did all of it, and did it for extended periods to let my circadian rhythms adjust. None of it helped. Obviously, things like setting a timer for bed and then turning things off help, but that doesn’t mean you will fall asleep.⠀
If anyone reading this struggles with serious insomnia, don’t allow anyone to gaslight you into thinking you’re doing something wrong. Many people will only get significant relief through medication, especially if you have PTSD.⠀
The human brain is a mysterious beast that we don’t fully understand, and the unconscious mind processes every single piece of sensory input before the information reaches the higher reasoning levels of the prefrontal cortex.
Author’s Note 2:
Lately, I’ve been using ChatGPT for images, only because it’s faster than searching through a lot of stock photos.
However, I DO NOT use AI in my writing. ⠀
There are only two exceptions. One is a piece in my book Not Long for This World, in which I asked AI to explain the dangers of AI. That’s a no-brainer.
The other is that I frequently run a piece through Grammarly to check for spelling errors, and because I’m addicted to commas, semicolons, and em dashes. ⠀ ⠀ I’m a practicing punctuation addict, choosing to focus more on a harm reduction approach rather than strict abstinence. Life is short, party hard.
That’s never appropriate. But people will talk. Unacceptable. Immoral. Wrong. Weird. Bad. No.
OK. Yes, I do like it. It does feel right. Alright, but just once. It’s none of their business. Yeah, I guess this is different. Only under these circumstances. I don’t usually, but I’ll make an exception.
II.
They say it’s wrong, and other things, too Though it hurts no one, and nobody lied A small person dictates who can kiss who, Who can think what, and what’s dignified
Unless you’re spreading disinformation Better not to worry what others will think In trying to fit in, find justification The world passes by before you can blink
Wanting what it wants, the heart an artist Mores and taboos prevent much strife Rational, safe, and often the smartest Unless they protect you from having a life
Jumping from thing to thing is unwise Or hiding in a socially acceptable jail Or hurting others with deceitful disguise All surefire ways to flounder and fail
Promises you make to yourself and yours —Never betray these oaths you contract People may shame you, scold, shut doors Regretting you let them compel you to act
There’s no easy way to sum it up neatly Love your loved ones, to hell with society Be faithful to your small circle completely Be truthful, be kind, but fuck propriety
the work of bukowski has a way of keeping me alive
the way he tells his stories of suffering through poverty and heartbreak, doldrums and rages, starved, psychic bleeding words and whiskey and cigarettes and anything else anything to dull the pain of being in this idiotic hellscape
dealing with the stupidity of people
it brings a certain grace, a poise, almost a kind of dignity to my own world
reading his poems keeps me halfway sane, keeps me alive
