The place beyond fatigue.

I dream of a rose the color of eyelids
on a soft lambswool bed amidst a fragrant
cedar forest, damp earth and twinkling leaves
playing with the sun. I feel the warmth on my cheek.

Here drink this it will help you sleep.

I sleep. I must, for I wake each morning
but the way of it never changes.
Get up exhausted,
fall asleep working
get up stiff-necked and ache in knees
go to bed to lie awake for hours
four hours
of wishing for blue-black stillness
or the right memory for once.

You should get some sleep man, you look like hell.

I find myself wondering if I’ve made too many holes in the walls
will the owner mind, will the rent go up again, or the hangings fall
and lay strewn about the floor.
I worry about the bags under my eyes.
I can only ever make poor first impressions
the efforts are taxing and go to waste.

2.25.07
© 2012 Anthony Sell – All Rights Reserved

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Blankly we stare, nightly
at glowing screens
scrolling text and convenient images
frankly waiting
patiently, impatient and full of unspeakable suffrage,
the intolerable numbness of our time
is relieved by floods of pithy quotations and
bitter comments
these glowing eyes see into the lives of others
more interesting and satisfied
on the other side.
We are separated by panes of glass and miles of wires.

© 2005 Anthony Sell

Awake at 3 AM

Awake at 3 AM and the clock
flashes the time to my conscience.
Toss and turn on the uneven bed
fix the covers, sheets and pillows
listen to the grinding of your neck
in blue midnite impatience
there is no grace in insomnia
only deadpan fatigue, a soul
leaking slowly from the corners of your eyes
I bounce my leg, for lack of a tail,
think happy thoughts, deepen
my breathing, pray for peace of mind,
for once, for a good night’s sleep
and find that this doesn’t work either.
The dog barking and that asshole
slams his car door again,
the furnace kicks in fits and blows air in,
the ticking clock is a pounding drum and
my neck is sore from the pillows.
I bury my thoughts in a basket of
dirty laundry, the room is a mess
and my life is no better
the light in the other room is still on
and the tape in my mind replays over and
over
and the time ticks by again at 3:30 AM.
I’m waiting for the music to begin
for the song sung by valkyrin and
choirs of angels, a heavenly lullaby
a kiss on the eyelids and softly tucked in.

© 2008 Anthony Sell

And I love you with your crooked teeth.

Your hand touches mine
we turn to face each other
on the pillow
looking down
your eyes dance darkly
through your lazy bangs
watching my hands
our fingers entwine
and the corners of your mouth
turn upward just slightly
I touch your hair
black as kitten fur, and as soft
the room, cast vermillion,
gold and apple green
dappled in sunlight,
my heart is a violet sponge
we kiss lightly and breathlessly
enter the same dream.

© 2.26.08 Anthony Sell

Labor Sons

And I dream
in those quiet times
of friends past
and faces lost
words spoken, or not,
of clasping hands
and weary eyes.

I dream of lovely agonies
and careless minutes
strewn, about
grinning stupidly
at the humdrum
of daily shuffle
and passing time.

Labor sons, we trusted
the clock, plodding
and plotting to overcome it,
the week, the day
the hour, the damned
Banker’s hour
and the shallow dollar.
The Butcher’s week.

Pockets pleading and
shoulders tight, the way
was to not-think
to think of anything
somewhere else
and bide, silently bide
we chewed our tasteless
food with the same
mechanical efficiency.

© 2.14.08 Anthony Sell

My Last Dollar

My last dollar walked out arm in arm with my last hope
for the month and my dignity.

Clint Eastwood’s bloody face is on the television
full of spite.
There is a woman on his arm who pretends that need is love.

The room is dark and there’s trash on the floor.
Someone has given up caring.
Someone should do something about that.

My soul aches for the things I should be doing
and my forehead pulses in time with the second hand of the clock.

Commercials and talking heads grab at my eyes
like rodents, or barefoot children, clamoring for attention.
I shut it off and sit disgusted.
My mood is black enough to dim the lamp.

Water that should be beer
slips past my tongue, grey and tasteless.
My lips are cracked.

The pressures of disbelief
repercussions of doubt
mold new patterns of behavior,
mistakes and poor choices.
I am no better than a piece of coal
full of potential, to burn, to shape
a diamond I will become, but not yet.
Now, I’m only a lump of dirt.

The man wanted me to respond, please.
To acknowledge his question
It’s good to want things.
The man wants me to be something else
and I want to smash his face for being what he is
and for being what I’m not.
No one gets what they want.

© 2007 Anthony Sell

It’s a good thing to be drunk on Sundays

It’s a good thing to be drunk on Sundays
because the cat is out of the house
and the car is fixed
for once the cold has missed this city
this month
the lamplights breathe, sigh
a gentle exhale
to the summer swells
smog and emissions
pool and swirl in the oilmist
on the maroon asphalt
grass that grows in the dark
cooling
and the neighbor’s light is broken and silent
my rest is calm in my easy chair
the woes have flown
out the window with the cat
and I know you will be home later.

© 2005 Anthony Sell
Originally published in “The Sound of Poetry” CD Poetry Collection & Hardbound Edition, International Library of Poetry, Howard Ely, Editor. Editor’s Choice Award.