Most people go to sleep at night.

My insomnia screams like a leaf-blower
of blinding blizzard hiding in the Siberian
cupboard’s rattling snowplow. It grabs
my keys then races along the freeway
in a retro shoot ‘um up Western then
shouts a loud bugaloo down Broadway
using lip-liner sirens. It’s made of steel
tacks mixed in the nine inch nails and
rattles every ordinary tin roof scattering
fluffy pillow feathers. It has no smitten
eye piece but a starry sledge hammer
of acid rock amplifier plugged into my
tumbling dice. And when it really gets
angry it smashes my glasses of warm
milk against the four-poster bed tsunami
over and over again until I’m forced to
get up from the lazy-boy recliner and
stagger to the bathroom mirror where
a face stares back at me with eyes
that dangle down from their dark circled
sockets like earrings the shape of kiwi fruit.

Two days later I come to and find wolfs
in my flannel sheets and a Czar hiding in
my bedroom slippers. I put on a robe
to cover-up my balalaikas and stagger
to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
Here’s the point where you may want
to add wind chimes or just a couple of
bacchanal sirens taped to the kitchen
counter. See, I never make it to the
coffee pot. I trip over my oversize dog
and land in a drapery crew cut, breaking
my commemorate precaution shimmy
feather and flashbulb to heaven where
I’m cordially greeted by statuesque hype
mugging milk and honey on a leash. But
this muffler looks nothing like my dog’s
bow-legged consulate crucified with jingle
sequins of red velvet skull booties, which
for anyone interested, are hand-knitted
in a one-size-fits-all brute hymn-anointed
gentility replica of manhole covers.