I Am

I am

Every day of the week except Sunday.

I am the living, breathing, groping form of vegetation

Called afternoon fidelity.

I feel

Fingers drumming on the back of my neck.

I sit

Three inches from the window.

I smoke

Where we used to breathe, and sometimes

His apparition appears

Asking why I no longer grieve

Flaunting a grotesque reflection in revolving doors and sometimes

Lingers beside me.

I give

Food to the homeless-

I know

You know my reasons.

I use all

Three lifelines whenever

I cannot stand still

Any longer.

I fear

This open ended weakness.

I don’t want to stop

Living in a light bulb

I don’t want to surrender-

These novelties make

My world a little tighter.

Before

I lived all alone in a

Glass terrarium and displayed my

Talent—just shaky religion and

Entertained the intrusive the ordinary and the trivial the

Bored hung back where I hung each

Old pair of ballet slippers, each year a different hook, in the closet I called home, where

I once ran away from home, where

I dreamt

Of grown up things, I cried

During infomercials late at night with

This person I did not know, whose fault lines paved the way

Mornings could be glorious if you know what you know

If it starts to hurt, call Dr. Herbert Snow

Things he said in life and death

And on a chilly night when I saw my breath.

But now

I think

About his crucifixion, he said I hope

I look like Jesus when I die.

I might try

Not to sanctify, sometimes

I drive blind just to prove

I am driving away.

I wish

I could meet Glinda, she would

Teach me how to sing, I prefer

Waltzes two and three, she

Would not compromise this wish, she would

Come alive and dance in a soap dish,

Bubbles that look pink without reflection of light,

Light my way as I walk

This off-color terrain.

I fear

Omniscient predators

I am

Frantically setting spools of tripwire

To make

Each superstition

Seem less personal.

I watch the portal close when he says—

Je suis perdu—

But I will not return for you.

Just in case

I pull back the rope ladder

And wish the phantoms all the best

Six feet under ground, the grass determined to stay fresh

In Nassau, in between burial plots

His mantra resonates:

Tecum vivere amen, tecum obeam libens

I try to stay away.

I survive

Squinting at the sky

And the hope

For a three way call

Withers down to whatever.

Those moths

Wearing but black

Scream regret

As the white lights never fade

He’s reduced to brush strokes

Riptide lines.

He is

An anchor, masquerading love

I am

Painting his tidal wave landscape.

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About lisadivenuta

I live my life based on bathroom graffiti. ~live for the mad ones, dig everything!~ 21, girl, upstate but not real upstate New York View all posts by lisadivenuta

2 responses to “I Am

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