words

 

"When I am empty, dispose of me properly" reads the silent plea on my soft drink cup.

Here is mine.

When I am empty, poke holes in me and pour water through until I run clear.

Tattoo me with all the tattoos I did not or would not get in life, until my body is alien to me, scarred and blue.

Make windchimes out of my smallest bones, and make me not too melodious, not too pretty.

When I am empty, send my feet further than I ever took them in life, and dispense with my parts severally in little boxes and caskets, and let my relics be disputed, copied, bought and sold in the market.

Sew my mouth shut, but cut off my ears
(they can go here, in my breast pocket)
and maybe I will finally learn to listen.

When I am empty dispose of me properly -
Broken, erect,
interred in a bed of soft tofu.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it doesn't take much it begins
for example
each time i enter the public library downtown
i push the glass door and reread the prohibition against sleeping rolls
the cool air hits my face then i feel it
rising tingling of my senses extending
as i move among the stacks in-spiring the intoxicating smell of so many books the presence of a trillion words
goosebumps suddenly i can feel where my thighs brush and how soft the hair is
on the back of my neck
a rush of ideas jostling and clamouring for space

it happens too when a cool wet winds blows in
i can sit on the stoop while disguised by the rustle of leaves
clammy angel hands rifle through my hair
pulling out scraps of ideas buried in the pile

an empty space will bring it on a stage a church
especially in the dark before dawn

a grey moth beating hard against every door in me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drizzle has a taste as well as a smell
and on the Steel Pier in Atlantic City the wetness
that clings to our nostrils
and cools the back of out throats is half rainwater
half ocean funk.

Drizzle melts the paper signs - "Live Paintball Targets" -
where you can shoot a picture of Osama bin Laden
or Martha Stewart
or, if you want, the lone employee
a young man wearing body armor and a ski jacket.

In the photo booth we pulled a blue curtain behind us and mugged.
The machine gave us a second set of prints by serendipitous malfunction
but when they came out, we saw that condensation on the glass
had blurred our faces beyond recognition.
And so we had two strips of photos
a you-shaped smudge and
a me-shaped smudge
swimming in a pool of blue.

In my set it's like looking at us
at a great distance
through heavy drizzle
crying.

I wanted to lean my knee against yours
I wanted to be too aware of your warmth
I wanted to hear you speak
I wanted your bones
fluted, curving like birds away form your throat
I wanted your voice.

I wanted your capture
I wanted to snare you in silk like the emperor's nightingale
I wanted your self.

I wanted your history
and the work of your hands
Every scar and the mangled family tree
I wanted the palimpsest beneath the visible
I wanted your book and your apocrypha.

I never wanted any of these things
I wanted your freedom and mine
and one more breath for choosing

you, me
me, you

over and over and over and over again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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