Every day of the week except Sunday.
I am the living, breathing, groping form of vegetation
Called afternoon fidelity.
Fingers drumming on the back of my neck.
Three inches from the window.
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.
Food to the homeless-
You know my reasons.
I use all
Three lifelines whenever
I cannot stand still
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.
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
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.
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 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.
Frantically setting spools of tripwire
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.
Squinting at the sky
And the hope
For a three way call
Withers down to whatever.
Wearing but black
As the white lights never fade
He’s reduced to brush strokes
An anchor, masquerading love
Painting his tidal wave landscape.