Rough Draft

It's not that I can't sleep,
It's that I won't

V.M. Kemrocken

This morning I went to court and sat without pay through the tedious decision making of our local legal system, sleep deprived by not so much design
as fallback habit. Pleas were entered, dates were set.  A waiflike young meth addict decided to reverse her previous decision and signed up for drug court. Maybe she will start eating again.
I used to sit through theses things in rapt attention, taking notes and reading the rhythms. The rhythms are always the same. Even when there's an arson murderer in the dock, like today.

When I was rebounding earlier this week from an entire night without sleep, I had epiphanies of insight.
The brain always makes sure it is first on the list for oxygen.
Uncluttered by normal thought abundance, I figured a few things out, remembered events long forgotten. Pieces fell and found their place.
Sometimes that's the way it comes, deprive the body, starve the brain, and there's a new plane of existence telegraphing its presence — is that the way you spell presence? — by way of the remaining functional synapses. So much has shut down and clarity comes.
That's the thought, anyway. Contrarienne took a day off to play and found upon her return that she had missed little and had nothing to pass along.
So she slept on it for about three hours, then went to court for a friend.
Now, midmorning and not even a first coffee, she opens the daily email from The Poets. I signed up for this. But I never read it. Today I will.

Wayne Miller's last line says it all, as all last lines should.
sleep gives the body back its mouth..

My mouth is full of thought.


Earlier in the week, I  read  a newspaper poetry critic's account of his plan to memorize a few lines a day until he had acquired a ready repertoire to fill such tedious moments. He is often called upon to recite for friends. Maybe I will do the same. Or just read a poem a day.

One of the things they often tell you to do in recovery is make lists. List ten things you're grateful for, they say. It's supposed to make you feel better.

Gratitudes No. 1. Poetry

First line or last line:
It's not that I can't sleep,
It's that I won't

Sometimes a blog is a personal diary. I'll try to minimize that , but from what I've seen so far, nothing much is happening today either.

If you would like to receive a poem a day during April, go here. If you would like to memorize some, I'll certainly ask for a recitation.