IN TWENTY DAYS I WILL BE THIRTY
I think all week I need to be lit on
Why I am not content with the space heater
it's a mystery, I'm waiting, I frigged myself
with historic narratives at least a year old
or older. Letters.
Yet I cannot allow myself to use the word 'frig'
when another writer has done so before me
to greater effect. That I had ideas at all,
they seemed to me as mushrooms
growing from the body of my lover
just as they did to a character in the novel I read about
somewhere, yesterday, if you substitute
my horror of ideas with his of the mole itself…things
against a creamed or paled skin. I could act like that actress
on stage! But not having practiced enough,
how should I set about to practice?
Yesterday the parking lot.
She who has veiled herself: Grocery Outlet
day old bread aisle moved, NEO
scratched into a bench at BART.
Clive consults the timetable at home, that's why
I have to wait so long. I don't. I'm holding
a sixteen dollar and five cent ticket in my hand
the least you can purchase with a twenty dollar bill.
This line of inquiry narrows, pain of constriction
somewhat eased by a change in subject:
my recent fear of own shadow
and/or chasing of own tail.
Turns out the moving darkness in the water of my bath
was me, so who's the pervert now? This way
relieves no pain. Leaping from the corner from myself
or I back away from the water I lurked in
out of practice but full of desire
I want to act.
I am waiting to be lit on fire
and occupy a dirty house, semi-cheap
feelings hang around me from the night before
but NOT from any pain of excess
GET ME? There are feelings unlinked to my behavior
inasmuch as conversation can be deemed behavioral.
We were just talking.
Not getting me.
It seemed unwholesome.
The woman a few seats down introduces her sisters
Gary and Larry. I wonder
if it's possible to get sick because the two stations
match so exactly, even if I only saw
one station tonight
twice in rapid succession
because I got lost on my way to the party. I went around the
and right back down the stairs. I was worried that people
or not see the glory of my Beloved,
my double chins, fear them
for no one knows the day or time
of their arrival. Moreover, I have a fine sense of direction
but cannot distinguish left from right, speak no other
besides the one I write in, and my eyes may taste of almonds
or match their color but never, never their shape. Basically,
I deliver myself into your hands. For what man
even catching my gaze before he exits at the Powell Street
can save me for longer than the three minutes
it took to write this down? My beauty lies in being
extraordinarily thin-skinned, full of shame
& cute. There are those
who can't refuse
my potent spunk! Little red berries come rolling up the drive
and there is nothing more beautiful
than little red berries, followed quickly by the desire to
sweep them up
so they don't get tracked into the house.
The date is January 3, 2004.
I often hear Elizabeth's voice speaking of Bernadette Mayer
while I am writing, and have idealized the notion I received
and poems made out of trash. I can't stop wishing for this
a smooth and luxurious interior
which the voice of Elizabeth may sometimes inhabit
along with something else. I think about big trash day.
And everything I have eaten or looked at
sentences not strung together
so much as they are worn,
worn out in full view
just as my new set of clothing arrives. I may not be clean
but I am somewhat naked. And what is the point in having fine
unless they can be ruined by weather, or placed in the box for
and smashed? Look upon the face of my watch.
Look upon its gears, observe my watch held under the glass
and above us, don't argue, the sun.