floating and leaving no trace
i can’t scrub this feeling
from my skin
sticks to me
like saran wrap in those
auto-erotic asphyxiation
pics from the coroner’s office
i stretch and stretch
pushing the fatigue out
until my joints separate
one by one
the pockets between bones
pop with gas or separation
anxiety
as if there were a difference
the sky has hit that summer blue
shade too soon for me
and tomorrow the sun will hang
white in the sky
a judgment on all of us
it boiled down to
a single egg from the fridge
and a piece of toast
one half of a slice of bread
on a chipped plate
not enough butter
to grease the knife
douse me in accelerants
use a word as effective
as a zippo shielded from the wind
to ignite me
shall we count, then?
see how fast i burn
almost as if I were made
of dry, bundled grasses
whispering, shushing
what number did you reach
before there was nothing left of me?
i hope you were not distracted
by all that smoke
fish bait skull
head full of worms
and you’re not
even buried yet
writhe and twist
spasms of simple muscle
react
heat, light,
electricity, auras,
biorhythms, train whistles,
cuckoo clocks, bees,
ankles, nipples,
pudding, time
decay
let’s go fishing
what is this place–
some kind of dorm
prep school, college?
filled with debris of an old life
this place is unfamiliar in ways that
reveal the lie
of the illusion of memory
here, a set of tibetan prayer flags
piles of books without titles
and so many toys
all things i have never
specifically handled
touched or
loved
the room buzzes with people
a handful of them long dead
every one interested
in helping me clean
scavenging things they want
from my old life
in a rush to get this room ready
for the next inhabitant
dragging objects packed or not
down concrete stairs
to where a moving truck
already stuffed full
awaits
shoppers draw near the scene
–a cosmic garage sale–
offering money
or just taking what they want
impossibly in the room
and on the ground
at the same time
the more i pack the more i discover
items still unclaimed
a box full of glass eyes
coins from foreign lands
an old handheld game
i should feel some kind
of attachment
yet only the dead give me pause
an overwhelming sense
of futility mixed with exhaustion
washes over me
i peel back carpet
and find a rotted wood floor
i have never seen
for a single moment
perhaps that pause
between heartbeats
the sun shone through
the wings of a butterfly
and i understood
the reason for cathedrals
al oom bakra
shto vor
nee ay nee ay salum
kala bat
shto vor
isram sankar
isram malkar
isram isram
shto vor
my thigh bone covered in scrimshaw
each coffee stained line of human ivory
a thin memory of us
of incidents on skin
the moon is a rabbit
keeping itself warm
on this not-yet-summer night
it doubles up on itself
in all that darkness
copland on the stereo
the cat mews for attention
writing time is over
Words and Feathers 