As I reach the bottom of the bag of some shit I used to like, I realize I'm bored, and don't want it anymore. It's like when I was mad for what's-her-name or mad to be what's-her-name and the tide was mad to go first to then fro. What a waste of time. So here are my seventy-five million poems that lifted, shifted, expressed the flesh around these bones. But today I may get up and walk right through the wall and the me I leave behind is just a stupid staring doll. At the bottom of this bag is some shit I used to like. Can you dig can you see the fish there riding on its bike? in a lather in a circle with miles to go before it sleeps? _________ for Sunday Muse # 105. art by Samy Charnine.
You never know how it's going to go. Early evening, book aside, tv on, dog asleep and smiling,
I went all zen over the ice cream tub. Too much for one time, but not enough left for later. It's like someone in your bed asleep-- a familiar sweetness that disappoints unannounced.
There's someone else, or you're someone else from who they thought. The door closes, the tv blathers on, the dog goes or stays, the book marker is lost. Better have all the caramel cookie dough now.
So I couldn't sleep, after. After what? After any of it. It made my stomach hurt, so I put the dog on his leash and took a turn around the neighborhood in the dark. He was hot on the trail of something-- I know the feeling.
The further we went, the less sure I felt. It seemed like a good idea at the time--how often have I said that? Passing the light manufacturing strip with its trailer offices and loading docks, an acorn fell on a tin roof like an angry word. The street lights were impassive. I walked faster--no objection from the dog.
Here we are, I said, home in sight. Crossing the tot park, my dog searched for nightcats, I watched for pervs or stoned teenagers on the swings, in the shadows. Three houses up, lights on inside-- We're waiting for us, in there, our other selves who go shhh shhh shhh like I've heard that mothers do, when things go wrong in the night. _______
In Old Mango City, I wore the thrift shop jacket you like, and the big shades.
I wore them up, in my hair as if I were trying out for Queen of the Produce Stalls. You dissembled, became incorporeal,
And slept with my better nature behind my back. Remember that tune we liked? Neither do I. I wish I could.
Here is my black top hat, and my white gloves. Here is you, appearing again. Ta-da, I say. You kiss me to make me shut up.
The buses are all out of service on the road to Old Mango City. An urchin brought me an orange soda and said it was voodoo.
So, sit here. On the curb with me. I bet you never knew we were a post card; I mailed us, addressed to our ghosts, postage due.
Don't be sad. I'm not. I just always cry at beginnings, arrivals, being here in a new place: New Banana Town--population you. _____ for Out Of Standard.
