I got nothing

No inspiration whatsoever. I could bitch about work. Or the weather. But instead, here's a poem lifted from Wicked Alice.



Insomnia


Chella Courington



You know me well strolling streets to be with people without

being with people. You ask for one dollar. One dollar.



What if I only have a twenty? Can I owe you for tonight?

Your eyes bloodshot like mine bags holding them up.



Johnson roamed London midnight to sunrise. Couldn’t bear

the garret stacked in leaves of words worked reworked



amanuenses oblivious to stale air to his rambling Fleet.

My rambling State slipping in my skin bleak above cement.



Days disintegrate unseen except by you grave lady reaching for me

singing a hymn my mother sang When nothing else would help



love lifted me. I’m not him: I can’t take you home. But I’ll leave you

this bill & all the change in my pocket.