My Restless Leg Journal

A fervent, gripping madness circulates chemically

throughout terrified veins, serotonin bridging

some synaptic gap between the receptors

inside my vacant extremities

as you sensually bite your lower lip - the embarrassed embodiment

of the erotic draws your eyes to the flowing, fluctuating modern romance;

body aflame with carnal sensations spurting seed and pollinating

as the moaning floorboard provides a moist, fertile soil

feeding flower upon flower

simultaneously blooming and dying

while the dog in my backyard

screams violently at the invisible intruders of the night;

while the chickens in my kitchen chirp in daunting bursts

battling over feed scattered on the ground

and oblivious to the things I do at night

when I am alone in my bedroom.

My love for this world is deep, visceral, and God-like;

I will birth the bosom of imagination incarnate -

a healer of a decomposing Earth and a lover

to the prostitutes and whores selling their cosmic sanctity

to the cold dark streets and a practitioner of salvation

through immense beauty.

I can't sleep.

My legs shake.

I am just restless.