i am six am and sleepless, colour leached from my body. exhausted. internal. the turbulent night of twisted sheets is not a smooth highway of sleep. there is no progression. i stare at the silent numbers on the handless clock. i endure the monotony of the urban cicada, the air conditioner is a sterile breeze. i sip the tepid water. glass and the liquid in the glass are clear. here is an inventory of bones, proximate, intermediate and distal. the organs, the blood and my self-conscious breathing in and out, out and in, and again. my mind conjures a map of the stars. i turn onto my side. i am sharp, pointed elbows, jangling nerves, taut shoulders, clenched teeth, wrinkled brow, parched throat, burning stomach, aching muscle, throbbing head. eventually even a stone is worn down by the tide.
[in response to Prose Poem challenge over at the Guardian:
Bricktop is a not a familiar name to most people today, though the crumbs of her extraordinary life are indispensible to the telling of a certain moment in the history of Americans in Paris, and Café Society everywhere. Woody Allen’s latest movie, “Midnight in Paris,” could hardly recall the days of Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, or the Fitzgeralds without Zelda crying, “Let’s go to Bricktop’s!”