I'm not sleeping again
I'm not sleeping again. I start to sleep, but I wake up early in the night, always its the same nightmare. The nightmares had stopped for a time.
Art Snyder had sued me, and for the first couple years, I was so worried about being homeless that I didnt sleep at all, then I was so exhausted, I slept like a log, six hours a night, for the first time since I met Mike Canfield and read Coup D etat in America. After the lawsuit, I maniacally tried to live a "normal" life. I refused to discuss or think about conspiracies. I had no nightmares. I had no dreams. I wanted to get over my anger. I wanted to be a good consuming mind numbed American. It didnt work, I kept trying.
I walked into this health food store. It was the smell of all that healthy stuff, potions and vitamins, it was the taste of the honey crunch bar, just like they had at Bee Balser's House of Health when I was a kid. I should have stuck to cigars, much safer. This nostalgia crapo can kill you. The honey crunch health bar- just like the one I bought that afternoon from the skinny dark kid in back of the counter at Bee Balser's.
The nightmares came back. I wake up and Senator Robert Kennedy is laying in a pool of his own blood, eyes open,staring upward and ever into my soul, crying out against injustice, against the wrong man doing the time for this crime. My mind jumbles to images of things I've never seen, Rev. Owens horse ranch, the inside of the strip club where that skinny dark kid was publically hypnotized,I wonder to myself, did Zorthian and Fineman see and enjoy that Hypnosis show on their famous rounds of debotchery? The blonde crew cut guy and the woman in the polka dot dress sitting down at the Dutch oven for coffee with the skinny dark kid. These images flood my mind as if I have been there and have seen them.
I lay in bed and walk through my home town in my mind in an uneasy familiar terror. During the day, I try to walk around and be a normal citizen, unaffected, but at night, I hear that skinny dark kid, now gray and old, his whole life spent locked in a cage, wailing from Corcoran prison. He wants nothing more but to recover his memory, to know if he was, or wasnt the killer, so he can know is he, or is he not, the prisoner in a Kafka novel. I think as morning slowly rises that Sirhan Sirhan must also not sleep.
Sirhan must lay awake, searching, traveling in his mind to the same places I travel to, looking, trying to know, trying to remember, trying to go beyond the fog of hypnosis, trying to remember the dappled light of trees, and the taste of honey crunch bars.
Art Snyder had sued me, and for the first couple years, I was so worried about being homeless that I didnt sleep at all, then I was so exhausted, I slept like a log, six hours a night, for the first time since I met Mike Canfield and read Coup D etat in America. After the lawsuit, I maniacally tried to live a "normal" life. I refused to discuss or think about conspiracies. I had no nightmares. I had no dreams. I wanted to get over my anger. I wanted to be a good consuming mind numbed American. It didnt work, I kept trying.
I walked into this health food store. It was the smell of all that healthy stuff, potions and vitamins, it was the taste of the honey crunch bar, just like they had at Bee Balser's House of Health when I was a kid. I should have stuck to cigars, much safer. This nostalgia crapo can kill you. The honey crunch health bar- just like the one I bought that afternoon from the skinny dark kid in back of the counter at Bee Balser's.
The nightmares came back. I wake up and Senator Robert Kennedy is laying in a pool of his own blood, eyes open,staring upward and ever into my soul, crying out against injustice, against the wrong man doing the time for this crime. My mind jumbles to images of things I've never seen, Rev. Owens horse ranch, the inside of the strip club where that skinny dark kid was publically hypnotized,I wonder to myself, did Zorthian and Fineman see and enjoy that Hypnosis show on their famous rounds of debotchery? The blonde crew cut guy and the woman in the polka dot dress sitting down at the Dutch oven for coffee with the skinny dark kid. These images flood my mind as if I have been there and have seen them.
I lay in bed and walk through my home town in my mind in an uneasy familiar terror. During the day, I try to walk around and be a normal citizen, unaffected, but at night, I hear that skinny dark kid, now gray and old, his whole life spent locked in a cage, wailing from Corcoran prison. He wants nothing more but to recover his memory, to know if he was, or wasnt the killer, so he can know is he, or is he not, the prisoner in a Kafka novel. I think as morning slowly rises that Sirhan Sirhan must also not sleep.
Sirhan must lay awake, searching, traveling in his mind to the same places I travel to, looking, trying to know, trying to remember, trying to go beyond the fog of hypnosis, trying to remember the dappled light of trees, and the taste of honey crunch bars.
posted by Red Taliesin at 5:44 AM
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