preoccupied.
Nobody ever tells you how busy loneliness is—
Every night I cover the windows in soap,
and through the night I dart
soap over any lick of light
that makes its way to my desk
or bed or the floor.
At first it was fear—an understanding that the light
was death, was the toxin,
though really the toxin was invisible,
they said, and came from the water.
But work blesses fear
like a holy man blessing a burlapped sinner,
saying It is for you and Because of you,
and in time the working mind
knows only itself, which is loneliness.
3
Dim sight now,
and each twitch flows
into a deep, old choreography.
Maybe a week ago, my arm banged the faucet,
and I danced
in the middle of the bathroom—
the entire final dance
from the tango class we took
at the gym in New Haven,
with the air as you.
I wasn’t picturing you,
I didn’t smell your damp hair—
don’t imagine that I’m living
in memory.
Whatever I am, it is good at cutting meat.
The trick is: That’s blood.
If you focus your fingers on feeling it,
you cannot mistake yourself for the animal,
who cannot feel; you never cut yourself
if you give your life to the blood you shed.
4
I know you’ve been waiting for disintegration,
but it just doesn’t seem to be coming.
I need to go out to gather some berries.
No more meat: I’ve adopted your diet.
All this time, I thought my shedding
would expose a core,
I thought I would at least know myself,
but these mild passions, all surface, keep erupting now
like acne—or like those berries on a bush.
Don’t ask me to name them—
I’ve never been that kind of guy.
Red berries—sour, sticky.
If you really want to know,
come here, just try them.
Red as earth,
red as a dying berry,
red as your lips,
red as the last thing I saw
and whatever next thing I will see.
THE SOUNDSCAPE OF LIFE IS CHARRED BY TINY BONFIRES
Two bedtimes ago, through my window,
I heard a cat get eaten.
As the cat split, it sounded like
a balloon string put to scissors
to make curls so the birthday boy
would smile extra wide.
Last night, by the same window,
I heard mostly my breath, inside of which
was a small baby suckling
my air for his milk.
When I bolted upright, the baby
grew up into a carpenter,
nailing his brains into the side of my lung
to babyproof the light switch.
Flip the switch and it lights
a picture of my emaciated, sore-ridden bum
for my breath to laugh at.
Why is my breath so unlike yours?
My ears? Why do I only hear such unnatural things?
Although, come to think of it, death is completely natural.
I’m just exasperated. Everywhere life-sounds
swarm this, our shared pond, like mating turtles.
Cars whoosh, schmoozers hum,
snakes spit poison, Martin and Martina say yes
and sob and hold, but my ears fill up instead
with eggshells cracked by the bumbling parents.
I cleaned my left ear out,
but my nail cut the drum.
It filled with water
and is deaf for now.
I’m leaving the right one dirty. No sudden changes.
Keep everything dry. Let it figure out a way to heal itself.
And me: just practice living with yourself deaf.
Sometimes your brain is as unwelcome
