A Dose of Dostoyevsky

Every night is a trip down a haunted river.
I try to sleep as alligators silently slip from the marsh
into my murky hypnagogic waters.
A mossy oak’s black bony branch fingers reach out over me.
Blue heron takes to the sky out of a tangle of wisteria,
huge wingspan gathers air and forces it hard against my chest.
My Baratarian pirate’s brain double crosses,
promising a restful sleep, then blackguard and crew
fire off cannon blasts from my starboard side,
sparking synapses, starting little fires everywhere,
bright enough to light up the revelers on Bourbon Street.

Chimeras watch me from the dark edges of riverbank.
They paw the ground with their goat hooves, steam rising
from their nostrils. Sharpen their lion claws
on a nearby giant magnolia tree.
Yellow-eyed goat heads bleat and defiantly toss their horns.
Golden lion heads roar and shake the huge harvest moon
reflected in my blood shot eyes.
Crimson snake heads hiss every past grievance in my ear.

Wide awake and desperate, I reach for another triazolam and
the last shot of Sazerac.
If I can’t sleep at 3:00 AM, I’d much rather be wandering
the streets of New Orleans, searching for a little dive
to get a bowl of gumbo.
Instead, I search for the tiny chapbook with the lovely wakas
about the moon.
No luck there, so I reluctantly eye the dusty paperback binding,
labeled The Brothers Karamazov, in the pile on the night table.
Years ago, my philosophy professor told me it was one of life’s
must reads.
Ten pages in and I can hardly hold my head up long enough
to toss it back on the heap--Eureka!