I used to slow
dance with my mother in our living
room spiritless as any prince I felt
the bark of her spine softening I became
an agile brute she became a stuffed
ox I hear this happens
all over the world
PORTRAIT OF THE ALCOHOLIC WITH HOME INVADER AND HOUSEFLY
It felt larger than it was, the knife
that pushed through my cheek.
Immediately I began leaking:
blood and saliva, soft as smoke. I had been asleep,
safe from sad news, dreaming
of my irradiated hairless mother
pulling a thorn from the eye of a dog.
I woke from that into a blade. Everything
seemed cast in lapis and spinning light,
like an ancient frieze in Damascus.
Listen to me, faithful silence: somehow
we’ve become strangers. Growing up
I kept a housefly tied to a string tied to a lamp.
I fed him wet Tic Tacs and idly assumed
he would outlive me. When he died
I opened myself to death, the way a fallen tree
opens itself to the wild. Now my blood
is drying on the pillow. Now the man
who held the knife is gone, elsewhere
and undiminished. I can hardly remember
anything about him. It can be difficult
telling the size of something
when it’s right above you—the average
cumulus cloud weighing as much
as eighty elephants. The things I’ve thought I’ve loved
could sink an ocean liner, and likely would
if given the chance. From my window,
the blinking windmills seem
further away than ever before. My beard
has matted itself into a bloody poultice,
and a woman’s voice on TV is begging for charity.
She says please and reads a phone number. Soon I will
mumble a few words in Arabic to settle back
into sleep. If morning arrives, I will wash my face.
RECOVERY
First, setting down the glass.
Then the knives.
Black resin seeps
into the carpet.
According to science,
I should be dead.
Lyptus table, unsteady
boat, drifts away.
Angostura, agave,
elderflower, rye—
the whole paradisal
bouquet spins apart.
Here, I am graceless.
No. Worse than that.
DRINKAWARE SELF-REPORT
—How many drinks do you have per week?
I drink what I drink lie where I lie I
deserve all the things I desire cocktail
chatter cymbals crashing green pills
which long ago stopped working
which I still carry to trade for
cigarettes or pitchers of Old Style it almost
feels like cheating
—How often during the last year have you found that you were not able to stop drinking once you had started?
I am an ugly boy but it’s a pretty
day everywhere hard blue snow and old
men arguing the facts of a story they
weren’t even born for they hate me I am
the only person here not grieving
—How often during the last year have you had a feeling of guilt or remorse after drinking?
filthy with pride I am standing as ever before watch
me sing through the jaw of a mouse about
the old miracles a crimson robe floating
up from the Gobi
sand into prophet then back into sand
—How often during the last year have you been unable to recall what happened the night before because you had been drinking?
even the river is tired of its slimy brown water there is no end to
wanting pensioners walk around a mall ogling
watches they’ll never buy one collapses
in front of the display case his skin
shimmers with sweat he looks
like a great carp
—Have you or somebody else been injured as a result of your
