I want you to come now!
I want you to come now at the latest!
Bring your pocket calculator.
And the grand piano.
Bring band-aids aspirin eau de cologne and antiseptic soap
a bottle of seltzer a bottle of gin a bottle of whisky
and toothbrush mug
a bottle of Ajax and a large pack of sleeping pills a houseplant
and a respirator.
I want you to come now!
Only you should come now at the very latest!
And take me by storm.
Turn out the lights.
And light the candelabras.
You should unplug the telephone jack.
And blow up the air mattresses.
You should dry my tears and talk some sense to me.
When the sun goes down behind the Opera House.
And it’s time to go home.
Then you should come to me.
With your heart.
And your shotgun.
So I’ll never lose my temper again.
In a tastefully furnished living room.
So I’ll never stand on the window ledge again.
Looking a little stupid.
With a dog rose in my hand.
So I’ll never creep through the subways again
with an embarrassing song.
On my broken lips.
You have to come now, now at the very latest!
Simply because I can’t stand it otherwise.
Simply because it’s so damn persistent.
Simply because I’m a totally ordinary woman.
Completely healthy and moderately overweight.
Somewhat domestic, helpful and nervous.
Kind and sweet and very scared.
With general interests and an untapped literary vein.
A Version of Maine
“Am I then this one fact forever,” he said…
“Until time runs out,” she said, pushing
Her golden bangs away from her eyes. Oh,
And the maples were
Already splotched with burning.
Snow filled the muddy footprint.
You could tell they were in for it.
Sore appendages. Raw throats.
Why did we keep returning
To bear witness to the same truth: something
In here is living with us.
We ate again. Sausages, wild rice—
A salad of lettuces.
A new average settled in. The unspoiled time
Of the future lay inside a forked past.
“The mice are well-fed at least,” she blurted out.
It was evening. The moonlight did something to her.
To him. Oily crumbs of stars on the newsprint sky.
We all laughed. We had another one.
There will always be a gun at your back. Or your front. Or somewhere near where your fear churns. And it is not your job to defer the end. Or the bleeding. It is your job to keep the heart pumping. Its violent living and scarlet song. Some would even say that maybe the gun is a device. That perhaps, it is actually Love. Because love can stop the heart's heaving or push it to a sure sprint. And maybe you can stop Love, but it is not your job to. Maybe the gun is a metaphor for Loving and being Loved and fearing the person who has a gun to your back. That they will one day use it to kill You. And fearing someone with something you do not have. Or maybe, A gun is a gun And you are trying to Survive.
the simple verb is only as good as its distractions. the brain is good
for a ride if you hold on. the brain takes a breath / memory
evacuates. the pen is in an undisclosed location. the song pulls you
firmly into the seat of a car. fuzz goes the voice of the future. fuzz
goes the voice of the lovers. you are making a distinction here. you
are holding the blank in your hand. you, the immediate soft
pressed between two safe bodies in an undisclosed location you
watch understanding bloom. one hand to okay you. a reenactment
of forever’s face and its sick trill.
you & i & the immediate instinct to blank.
somewhere nearby a series of people walk to a series of
destinations. some seal a thought in plastic before dipping it deep
into steaming water. an idea takes a breath.
a memory chokes on itself.
In Maracaibo, being unlucky translates
to salty. You are salado, brackish, bad luck
swallows you and spits you out like an ocean
wave. It is never done with you. I am
salty. Mama found an iguana under
the kitchen table this morning. While everyone
was out scaring the green monster away, I
sprayed her French perfume on my hand. It smelled
like her during hugs post-dinners—its fragrance lingers
on her plastic-covered couches. Scent particles flew
into a fan, a brushed nickel finish apparatus,
and out into her bedroom. I held out my hand
in front of the fan, as if it to stop physics. it chopped
off my fingertip. As my relatives clean the bloodspots
from my dress—they’re huddled up around me, on their knees
the iguana they chased off earlier is walking
underneath my bed. I’ll drop something at night,
and when the lights are off, feel
its scales through my bandage.
Think about where you have been in your life thus far & think about suburban America 1995–present. Tell me more about beheadings. Look up there, the girl-in-the-guillotine, sword-in-sheath. The first girl I kissed I told her I loved her, gold blade to my throat. I sent her more love than could fit. Wax stamp of crest, sigil, tattoo of initial(s), what brand of unfortunate as if a town-square ritual, body-outlier, unsolved mystery, revealed.