David takes a long piece of plywood out of the shed, and runs his hand across its edges. The handsaw slides back and forth, it splits and falls to the floor. Cutting does it. There are chairs set out like suspension bridges. Everything changes, their functions change. The sheet takes the shape of a wing, becomes the wing I think. A girl takes the shape of an azalea, pinkly sits on the edge.
Dear David, sometimes I think I’m sleeping and I like the way you blow through the door. I watch for wet David-dew on the cool stoop.
It’s always a question. Putting it. This goes here, that there. Like that, yes.
I ran away. Ran down, I guess. And soft rock is always playing, everywhere I run. Not fast. Airports. Orange alerts. Pieces of clay crumbling off the mountains. They run down.
So Jane says “you should write every day.” She says “you should write in spurts” she says “you must find your poetic space.” Hump.
Today it’s acidic. Clouds coming over like acid. Acid in my mouth and stomach. Something claw-like there, a bread hardened on the counter, difficult to chew. Don’t mind me. Don’t mind at all, sitting in the bathroom with a book of early William Carlos Williams. But instead of looking for the loops of repetition, I’m wondering What kind of face did they make during surgery?
Today is hospitalish. A whitish room with a greenish light. A nursish girlish bedpan dish. Peeish greenish. Shish shish shish.
So my skin is green and I’m eating a falafel in the street with a boy I haven’t seen yet (In fact, don’t know if I’ve ever seen him). But he’s there, looking like he just lost. And I’m lost. I don’t speak French.
In short: Acid clouds bubbling up like a bad movie. Tomatoes that sag in small gardens. Brain waves. I don’t know why, but there are brain waves zigzagging across the streets whispering to everyone.
I can’t pronounce Goethe. So what kind of work have I got? Do I have any takers? Any bids on the table? Is there any way to run my fingers over this apartment and not feel like I’m already gone? Little by little, scratched out. Like a smell, waning along the street. Settling somewhere. Where do smells go? Hmmm. I know that has something to do with a swallowing. Smells vs Atmosphere. Dear God, where does the smoke go after its done? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. So I’m done with you sir, done with all your fire.
Cremaster 2: Barney barely knew his inner cowboy.Plastic and vaseline. Rubbery forks. Shivering in the subway, seeing someone that might be Jeff Magnum, maybe not. Maybe lip synching Tom Waits for the entire train ride, knowing full well that the frog in my throat is not a frog at all, a piece of shrapnel. That’s the way it goes when it’s raining. Frogs and gutters and gone-fishing-music playing on labor day. Gone-fishing music, and I like the lake. Or maybe the way mom describes the lake all these years later. What looks like a lake is a glass vase teetering on a muddy shore. Andl it will all come crashing. You, mom, the lake, everything inside.
I blame Anna. How startlingly productive the sun seemed before 8pm, how it shrank to the size of a distorted dwarf. Blame Anna. She didn’t do the dishes or fill the water jug or clear out a path to walk through wind. Blame Anna for the shingle of bills on the table. Blame Anne for witchcraft and weather-vane tampering. She was the one who left the light on. Fire Anna! Take her out to nice place and when she’s wiping her mouth with the white napkin, give it to her. Fair and quiet. She won’t say much in public. Anna, Darling. I love you. You know I love you. Blame Anne for wanting her own way out. Let the coordinates fall to the floor. Anna! You are exquisite, a leggy kind of careless. Lift up your skirt. Show me the shining. Pour the adhesive into my hands.