This is a letter to the night. If you are not
the Night, please don’t be offended,
and feel free to repurpose this.
This poem is like a jar emptied out
to catch insects on a summer night,
but then not ever used. Left there
with the screw lid forever on, a yellow
scratched lid. The End.
(A smell of pickles will haunt it
longer than anyone you know
will be alive.)
Wait. I have something to tell the moss…
“I see something and I like something
and I copy it. I am like you in your green
cushions of breath. I copy it
the way you put down on earth breath
after breath, heartbeat after heartbeat.
We’re making a composition. There’s a reason
the stars stay up all day. They must have
“I still keep looking out the front door, checking
for the mail, even though there’s no longer
any house. ‘Get down off that table!’
the poem screams at me and claps
its hands angrily. My feet smack the carpet
and I stalk away in resentment, my tail
filled with poison now, ancient poison.
“This is an epistle written to the night,
the one that owes me money.”
They said you missed out on so much being the way you are. They said it without punctuation like that and so it will go. On. Without punctuation. Not the way a life is when someone stops on the stairs merely to be aware they are stopping on the stairs. Shall we address Gertrude Stein from here?
This painting is a solid color and is uterine.
They said that but whether they addressed me or not might be irrelevant if I took it to heart, to the place underneath this potted plant. And that cop standing next to it. The truth is they were talking to someone else and I overheard and it was suddenly addressed to me as though I were the someone else on the p.a. they did not actually address, but talk about behind her back, as people generally do, because language only exists behind backs, everywhere, really, this is true. There is nowhere to say anything that is not behind many, many backs. That poems exist is proof of this fact. They are so far behind all human backs it is ridiculous.
I was putting cheese on my grilled cheese at the time, middle of the night, and my hands were freezing, they were just ice, and I imagined a tumor in a place in my shoulder, I had to check, but the hands were a misery, a punishment, a cold of Inquisition (they didn’t use only fire; think), iciness of a surgical x-ray table you have to lay on, just get it done, verify there is no tumor, flip the grilled cheese sandwich, discard thoughts of vice, remember that the second side always browns exponentially (existentially) faster (it’s like a second marriage). Don’t make the same mistake again and flip the sandwich, did, it is now on the plate and who were they (we) talking about, the ghosts in love with criticism of others? ghosts on stairs? Let me open up the melt of the sandwich and add a fresh slice of tomato, but salt it first, like memory, salt the slug of the world. Get down into the dissolution of the salt in a flavor. You can’t hold it anymore. That red pulpy thing. The salt and the tomato are inseparable like beach and skyline on a perfect day. The festering voices go past like countless buses and you must learn to sit and knit inside them. You are not young enough to die on a ledge anymore.
of an old house.
so much dental floss,
through the crevices
of this world,
the turgid factual
the weird gnosis
Their mind mass slows to the cool
September air, the tempo a function of temperature,
their self-explanatory dying, told without pity. Count the beats
to know how much impersonal darkness they have left.
I can’t hear it impersonally. I want to personify the sound.
I believe there is someone making that sound,
even if my someone is only dark splinters on the ground.
I feel it’s talking to me, and somehow performing my mind.
If I can’t take it any longer, I will throw open the front door
of my house and yell at them. They will grow quiet for a moment
as if listening to me. And then they (no they there) will continue
their chant. The sound will close back over me
like starlight, and I will drown in that.
People, artistic people, prefer symbols to facts.
There is more of a river to navigate,
a foggy horizon ahead, banks with disappearing trees.
There is a barge to fill and pull. But facts
are symbols too. Examine facts closely,
and you’ll see they’re heading up the same river of fog.