Insomniacs, We

By J. Andrew Schrecker

Insomniacs compose grocery lists and manifestos, a phoenix lies charred in its own ashes, and shadows hide in corners, afraid of themselves. In this decade-spanning volume of poetry, J. Andrew Schrecker blends surrealism, observation, and personal confession to paint a portrait of heartache and longing in recession-torn America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Andrew Schrecker
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9798201355548

Book preview

INSOMNIACS, WE

and other poems

J. Andrew Schrecker

AUTHOR'S NOTE

These poems were written between 2005 and 2020.

This printing features revisions made since their initial publication as well as additional inclusions.

Cover photo & design by the author.

Copyright © 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021 J. Andrew Schrecker

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Shattered people are best represented by bits and pieces.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at stars.

~ Oscar Wilde

for the 99ers

and those of us who are latchkey kids still

we’ve been a restless generation

Insomniacs, We

Everyone I know an insomniac.

Everyone dearest to me restless in love, in

work, in self.

At night we lie awake, eyes fixed upon

ceilings, where we compose grocery lists and

manifestos and letters of resignation.

If we compose anything at all.

If we don’t simply wish away the beams

and plaster, revealing stars we will never visit

but will say we did just the same—

the ache deep within us to be something,

do anything.

Lovers without Technique

A box spring and mattress on the floor,

an old suitcase masquerading as a nightstand.

I lie beside you, study patches in the ceiling

and invent their improbable backstories.

The light of a touchscreen bathing your face,

its hue other-worldly.

All about are piles of unwashed clothing,

their sleeves and legs crumpled in mockery

of your perfect form. (Women born works

of art, men doomed to spend entire lifetimes

trying to create just one.)

Above us the arrhythmic beating

of headboard against wall—lovers without

technique. Above us the weight of a weekend

without slumber, words and action without

thought.

Everything

All about us

governments topple

and stars slowly fade.

All about us

time dissolves

everything we know,

withering flowers

and hope

and skin alike.

...and yet all

I can think of

is when you pin up

your hair, revealing

the place where

a necklace

might connect.

Diaper-clad and Giving Chase

for Dad

The rumble of an engine beneath hood,

the bouncing of bodies in a cab. The two of

us together on a trip to the hardware store.

Between each word an eternity.

Between each heartbeat the rise and fall

of civilizations. (We aren’t always kind

to one another but want to be, and I believe

that is the same thing.)

We round a corner, glide past houses

worn by sunlight and tenderness and hail.

I spy a child diaper-clad and giving chase

to his mother in their yard—

the unrestrained spray of a garden hose

in his grip.

Head tilted against window, I feel

the cold sting of glass where hair once was

and wish I knew now what I knew then.

A Merchant Peddling

How they must have gathered around