Chani Zwibel And The Daughter Of A Religious Fanatic, The Dust Of A Vesuvius Hippie's Dream, A Father's Minnow Basket, And The Chipped Nail Polish Awaiting Payday

INSOMNIACS’ COLLARBORATIONS 

i

I was tired of everyone and everything,
 the noise inflating in my head,
swelling like a fever.
 I wanted to quiet that tide of sound.
 I wanted to sleep,
rest my head against the pillow
 and have it
 not be so heavy with thought.
But it was.
 The night, outside,
 a dirty dishrag stained with soot.
 The light inside a snotty yellow.
The dog on the couch chewing a bone,
worrying it like anxiety was worrying me.
I did not know
 when the thoughts would cease.

ii

In the dark, uncanny hours of the night,
 past my third or fourth beer,
 when my head was finally heavy on the pillow,
 the dancing demons inside my skull
began to scream and throw shit,
I open my eyes to the ceiling,
 and sighing, softly,
get out of bed to go write.
The only way to tame the monkeys
 is to get them down on paper,
or in this digital age,
trap the suckers inside a computer screen.
 I am no sword-wielding bad ass,
no heroine,
 just the daughter
of a drunk and a religious fanatic;
we all take our solace
 inside some obsession,
whether the cross or the bottle.
My husband sleeps the heavy sleep
of a man who has been working all day.
I feel restless,
 trapped in my day job,
 the purgatory of a health food store,
at home and comfy in my grey blanket,
going nowhere slowly.
Dust tickles as it settles on my skin,
 and I breathe it in,
 caught in the Vesuvius
 of some hippie’s failing dream.

iii

Respite?
Well, angels give respite
 and I’ve been out at all angles
 trying to call them down to save me,
but they keep taking me
back to the garden
 my mother grew
at my childhood home,
 and reminding me
of the little fish in my father’s minnow basket,
waiting in the creek
for a man who will not need them
 to fish with in this lifetime ever again.
Death’s pale mare takes them,
 same as the hand who set the trap for them,
 metal basket in creek water
 a grave just as much
 as yawning six-foot- deep rectangle
 in the churchyard.
 Dead father,
dead minnows,
anxious angels.

iv

You see the demons
 keep dancing around
to the same jingle,
on an out-of-tune
merry-go-round
of pain,
and they keep rolling
 the same dice.
Playing the” not-enough-money game,”
The “You’ll-never-amount-to-much roulette.”
 Spin the wheel for “you’ll-die-alone-and-obscure.”

v

I can hear rats
scratching and chewing
in the walls.
 My chipped red toe nail polish
reminds me
next paycheck
is a week away
I can hear rats
chewing in the walls,
and the rats can hear me typing.
 I type and the rats chew
 and it is almost like
 we’re collaborating
 on this poem for you.




Chani Zwibel is a graduate of Agnes Scott College, was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but now dwells in Marietta, Georgia, with her husband and their dog. She is an associate editor with Madness Muse Press. She enjoys writing poetry after nature walks and daydreaming.