I forgot April was National Poetry Month and now I'm pissed. But I have a poem here somewhere that ties in neatly with something I was talking about with Amanda this weekend.

Namely, what fun it is to become fully wake at 3:30 a.m. for no discernible reason. Or rather, that reason possibly is discernible, by someone with a panoramic X-ray machine and a home phlebotomy kit. That person better have big, pulsing veins in their head, too. And I want to see some sweat.

Amanda and I were at Erin's for her "Randy and Erin Managed to Stay Married a Month!" party, and it was marvelous. I met some lovely people, including Melati and her ghost.

I think one cure for insomnia is to stay up five hours past your bedtime. Watch as you collapse into the most comfortable stranger's bed you've ever had the luck to luck into. Like a ton of bricks, you are, and still are, when you wake up after five hours of dreamless sleep and squint into the face a cloudless blue oven. I mean sky. Not wanting to disturb our hostess, Amanda and I Mapquested the nearest Starbucks. And I'd probably still be walking there, in my bathrobe and Birkenstocks like some sort of sad, Jesus-y Cathy-figure if Erin hadn't ignored our text messages ("Coffee?" "COFFEEEEEEE") and sorted us out like a pro.

"I have to take another one, your eyes were closed."
"Yeah, I did that on purpose."

New sock zombie!! I think there's a definite resemblance.

Auto-Lullaby

Think of a sheep
knitting a sweater;
think of your life
getting better & better.

Think of your cat
asleep in a tree;
think of that spot
where you once skinned your knee.

Think of a bird
which stands in your palm;
try to remember
the 21st Psalm.

Think of a big pink horse
galloping south;
think of a fly, and
close your mouth.

If you feel thirsty, then
drink from your cup.
The birds will keep singing
until they wake up.

Franz Wright