A GUIDE TO SLUMBER; A TIRADE WITH TANGENTS; A MANSPLAINING; A SURRENDER

BY DUSTIN KING

I was asked at a party how I sleep at night
it is a delicate balance
we dread the midday nod the yawning
the staring beyond consternation missing invital information

we dread midnight MRIs self-diagnoses silly ruminations
false revelations realizations we assume true for everyone

pharmaceuticals failed us fucked us up we can’t get into it
so CBD melatonin in a pinch
but it makes us groggy
black-out curtains ear plugs
but what if we miss the first screams of catastrophe
plus wax build-up

we avoid alcohol caffeine
one sip and we stay up laughing with whoever will have us

masturbation is unreliable
it sends us across wastelands of regret wanting
we were someone else with someone else

our minds like dreams like our lives
a notebook of scrawl left in the night
pages flapping tearing scattering
we try to gather

our hands pinned beneath us in unholy yoga poses
we sign curses into grimy sheets
we throw our phone across the room
oh, would we could snap it in half

peer in windows
neighbors’ faces lit yellow by the light of the netherworld
ogling netherregions
portal through our very hands

or through the refrigerator in front of which we stand scratching ourselves

light light light
squeezes through every pinhole and crevice like water
or an octopus
tentacles reach for us we reach for tentacles
we march across an alleyway to smash a floodlight with a chunk of pavement
but the blue blink of laptop modem humidifier moonlight starlight dawn

signals to somnambulate the streets
come to at front doors of exes burning with shame
lovers who burned in bed with the heat of a lightning strike
body-locked us like pro wrestlers

we writhed free gasping for air
extinguished ourselves in a cold shower

do co-habitators bind and gag each other?
do they sleep the sleep of dogs in dens sharing heat and odors?

in dreams we fall but never hit ground
flirt but never fuck
if we rise to pee
as we must once twice a night
we can only contemplate bedwetting for so long

we stay the dream in our heads
even if the home invader’s head vibrates and falls back on a hinge
the horror softens once we
welcome the dark figure under the covers

memory’s phantom limbs wave
dream bits like bone shards
if we could recall it all
we’d desire nothing but the thrill of rest
the earth might replenish

we’d only wake to whip-poor-wills like our brother whispering in his sleep
warblers like mom and dad are fighting
wrens like they make love one last time

Dustin King would always rather be sneaking a bottle of wine into a movie theater. When nothing good is playing, he teaches Spanish and exchanges dreams with loved ones in Richmond, Va. His poems pop up in The Tusculum Review, New Letters, Ligeia, Marrow Magazine, samfiftyfour, and other rad spots. He is a poetry reader for Sublunary Review and curates the poetry and performance event “Yodel Farm.” His first chapbook “Last Echo” is now available from Bottlecap Press. His second “Courteous Gringo” will be out this summer from Seven Kitchens Press.