This message has no content,
the device tells me, and I realize
that after a surfeit of content
bearing too many messages,
ratcheting voices, rattling swords,
the roar of violated nature,
all the demands on my amygdala,
I am so enamored of this error,
this permission to be absent
in these last instants of liberty,
to rest my eyes on nothing
but the steam from my tea.
Well, what do you know, a poem, after many, many months of having absolutely nothing penetrate the black veil. My doctors will say what they will about the return of my insomnia, but at this point I think I ought to say: Welcome back, old friend. Actually, there were fragments of at least three poems in my head last night (or rather this morning) that I had to spill out on my tiny bedside notebook, but the technological turn of events this morning pushed this little ode to the forefront.