Saturday, February 28, 2009

the wiser anatomy

my dying grandmother
a believer in god all of her life
said to me while she was constipated
& trying to reach up & pull shit out
of her asshole in the bathroom:
"there ain't no god--
don't listen to that garbage"
& a little while later as medics
wheeled her out on the gurney
she said, "change my room back
into a den b/c i ain't ever coming
back this time"
as her cheek bones rose
like islands of truth in her face
wiser anatomy than the wrinkled skin
i remember getting the news of her death
& standing in her empty room
next to my own & then kicking
her walker & making a hole
in the newly painted pink walls
my mother coming in saying,
"don't do that--someone else can use it"
after that i was convinced that all beds
are actually gurneys in disguise
it's just a matter of time

a little warm up (for wolfgang)

39 this month
w/rotting molars
coffee & nicotine stained
incisors darker than my skin
every night death unflossing them
a little more
w/its rough ancient twine
i prefer to think of it all
as a little warm up before
it finally straps its black tourniquet
around my heart
cinches it just right
& there'll be no more losing teeth
they'll be safe in my skull
beneath the ground

praying for a boiling rain

it's mid winter
& large carpenter ants
are coming down
from an unpatched hole
in the bathroom ceiling
i turn on the scalding bathwater
& some are still kicking
as they float towards the slats
of the tub drain
i'm as surprised by this black procession
moving down the tile
& dropping into the porcelain basin
as i am of the mysterious pain
in my upper thigh tonight
the gnawing beneath the skin
like something the cats are
waiting for sitting atop the cabinets
ears pricked, listening to
scratching within the walls
i'm not sure what to make
of these strange invasions
but it's enough to make a man
pray for a boiling dark rain

one day you'll pack yr organs in a valise and leave these premises for good

this existence
contains
less scope
than a
peephole
in a hotel
door
& like
a rental
it isn't
permanent
either
one day
you'll vacate
these
premises
for good
you'll pack
yr organs
in a valise
& the hole
will rotate
closed
like the iris
of a
camera

i am my own pallbearer

i
am
my
own
pallbearer

carrying
my
dead
weight
throughout
this
world

over
threshold
after
threshold

stoic yet
hysterical
within

i pause
to smoke a
cigarette

then lift
myself up again

& move on
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.