Late night room lamp on floor
feeds stale light remains fresh still
hours creep in and out
tiptoe like a child
up late to search corners and shadows
if there are unknown invaders:
aliens, cockroaches, spirits of past
noisy cats attacking plants or mice
in the midnight moonlight
who knows who knows why
without rhyme without reason
we have life and breath
and stretches in between
like the tired white cats of peace
some say mine looks familiar
like someone named Daniel
but he was a girl, first to me
the little runt is big now
still childlike playful submissive
shuffling through songs constantly and games
no one chooses anything
everything is on the internet
tonight, and every day
creep like the cat at night
prowl hunt hiss pace
plot enhance act
then the floorboards speak
they speak in creaky squeaky tongues
sing to the cockroaches!
sing to the cotton-tailed rabbits!
hopping swarming wandering
the opposite of alleyways
quivering terrified rats like drugs addicts
scamper scheming with hope
in hopes to nibble on a little something
people sit inside biting fingernails
crying waiting for it too
anticipation of a foggy sun
the artificial presence pleads
begging for the switch to be hit
in desperate search for sleep
and a place to do it
plush couch nearby giant bed
the talkative wood slabs of floor
next to the put-out torch
where sleep is welcome and easiest
finally, it’s all over and tomorrow is a new day
so, the cat yawns again to a stretch
leaps to eat because it must
or because it knows better than
humans humans humans humans
only justify poor choices with rationale
only skewed unique bizarre indignant failure
to appear important needed
imperative to the situation of existing
no more than English speaking pawns
to await an ultimate stamp or swamp
acquire full-fledged super duper orgasm
to feel an infinite everything
before death before the real end
before nothing matters anymore
to be a lamp a floor a door
to be a sound from any where
to be an automobile to have a switch
to be a cat a rat a cockroach
to be a tree a bee or even me
to have a pulse one’s own sea of bright light
to be a human bean maybe
to know what happens to it
the quiet light on a high nite
to think about it all when it’s off
the whole of all is home tight and warm
unless to be dead or soulless
with lust only to be left over feelings
to be nostalgia and shuffle on itunes
to know one’s contribution
to be the noise of stagnation
to be nothing the lonely chaos
stirs and echoes of an empty restaurant
a dead alley the corners of dive bars
shameless in ambience
blokes and sad girls with drinks
fish for fresh conversation
talk with anyone but no one
no one knows what to want
drink stare with brooding mind at Chicago
broadcasting screens the closest to the lamp
know that it is switched to “on”
but cannot be turned off
only does it illuminate
and so that fine white coat
the yawny cat of white blends with couch
cushiony occasionally alive limbs
experience breath and thought
as if eternal deceivingly mortal
as if fatal necessary reality


I originally titled this “Late Night in Irving Park”. I wrote this over 5 1/2 years ago, when I lived in Chicago. It was a much different time for me. I was pretty lost and disconnected from myself, my friends, my family. It is amazing how a few years can really change a person. I changed cities and I changed my life. Nothing is perfect, but the perspective is much more defined.