Thought Police


Crosswalks. My cell phone.
My husband’s voice like Big Brother, receding.

This watch –watching, witching, winking.
My lover’s Rhumba, bringer of tripping hazards.

Thermostats. Autumn, falling into place.
Time – simultaneously a treadmill

and a rubber band. I think a lot about friends
in other cities. I think about Chardonnay.

I think about stationary bikes
and what new contortions I could do with dumbbells.

The new black flanks of the mountains.
My lingerie that still smells like smoke

after six washes. My hotel bed
and what comes next.

My mom, who died months ago
polices my thoughts benignly

but inextricably. The sky, unattainable.
The three Donkeymen of the Apocalypse.

This spatula, ready for splintering.
These traffic pylons.

Remember

When you unearth a corpse and it’s still fresh, and you see it writhing
with maggots and larvae and nymphs moments from exploding into flies

remember: this is their home, and you’re as much a disturbance to them
as they are to you. Imagine the revulsion of a salesman stepping into your home
unexpectedly, on a day you decided, fuck it, I’m not picking up dishes
or doing laundry, or vacuuming or cleaning up after anyone but myself today.
That salesman would probably wear the same expression on their face

as you are wearing now, spade in hand, peering into the dark of fresh earth
pots of peonies and roses waiting to be dropped in, completely forgotten
the unexpected flash of white knobbed fingers, a deflated eyelid,
all those unanswered phone calls explained.




Just In Case It Is

You stand on the stage and look out at the crowd and you know
that there are people watching you right now that will be talking about this night
ten twenty years from now, it might mean something, who knows
who or where you’ll be then. Perhaps there is more honor in obscurity
more validity in an artist virtually ignored until unearthed so much later
either as a shoebox of recordings in the back of a closet
or under the tip of a pickaxe upturning your work’s final resting place

but wouldn’t it be nice if the people recording this on their phones
showed this night to their children or grandchildren twenty thirty years from now
have this night met with some kind of silent reverence
because even then, they know who you are?

So take a breath before you speak, make sure your throat is clear
there’s no phlegm or couch waiting to distort your words
This could be really important.

STATIC



Heroin
zombies
sit on
sagging
couch
Stare
at nothing
Air itself
drowses
No music
no video
games
no scent
of food
cooking
Pantry
bare
Just
an omni-
present
high

Makeshift

The men I’ve loved
or at least had sex with

slept in parking lots,
woodland patches,
basements owned by
another girlfriend
and her husband,

shelters run by the
Catholic Workers,
abandoned cars,
the beds of their own
pickup trucks,

distant relatives’
unfinished garages,
and countless couches
inside the homes
of well-meaning friends,

shortly before they
became ex-friends.

Such clever ways
to avoid that pesky
rental vise.

What’s wrong with
a bit of inconvenience
if it saves a few bucks?

Churn

Suffering makes you a churning cauldron.
That alone will not make you a writer.

It takes more than that.
Practice. Failure. Going at it again.

We all have enough suffering,
Twisted memories inside us,
To become a writer.
But not everyone can do it.

There’s luck as well as hard work.
You need a mix of that
Along with the pain

As you stare into the cauldron
And stir, stir, stir.

“Reasons to Drink Alone”

They want angel wings,
even if they think god is dead,
then joke about dying
until they realize the blankets
they bought from the thrift store
make up their deathbed,
and believe redemption is as easy
as turning off the lights.

Test of Patience


The first tint of light,
The buried seed
Never dies.
Memory is a cage
If you never
Think ahead
Where the road lies.
There is a way out
Just look where the tunnel
Ends.
Before a sentiment,
Now an emotion.
A waking constellation
Is a night walk
Like holding hands
In December.
You can borrow heat
From the stars
Just look at
The power of imagination.
We are each one of us
The chapters close
The book is your
Test of patience.

FIRE OF LIFE

Cover me with your beauty
Fill the cracks in my heart
Without you
I’m a dried-up source
A standing river
I’m the road which
Leads to nowhere
Silent in helplessness
All alone without a splendor
Impersonal views
Staring at yesterday
Blind for tomorrow
So, don’t leave without
Turning your eyes around
Stay close
The night is descending
It’s too black and I fear
The shadows of darkness
Stay with me
Be the fire of life
That shines in me.

The Walls

after The 10547th Apartment, artist Osnat Tzadok

drip with the blood of ghosts
who have rented this cell before.
I can feel their eyes, straining
to break free of anonymous
wallpaper, beige. Tattered carpet
matches the inexpressiveness,
the mood lingers, whispers
in my ear. This is all you will become.
I cover my head
with a blanket I do not remember
buying. I am already losing
this life-war of attrition. Tomorrow,
I will be nothing but a dust pattern,
a footprint fading, swept off
the balcony without applause.

My Social Life at Nineteen

When a date pats my forearm,
tells me I’m a nice boy,
I know the next time I call her home
she won’t come to the phone,
probably because she’s sprawled
inside a souped-up Chevy
sharing a cigarette, a shoplifted beer
with a high school dropout
on furlough from the county jail.