II

i don’t sleep much anymore. when i close my eyes i dream of vines twisting under my skin acid green ivy humming alongside my veins, spiraling towards the sun

the skin peels from my fingertips flower petals red and rawbruised skin smooth against cold tile trying to convince myself not to vomitin a public restroom. my throat is full of roses and blood drips from my tongue eyes spinning like pinwheels in the mirror. shoulders jerk and fingers clench.

once when i was very young i got lost at the state fair i stayed very still in the hope i might never be found

now i live alone talking to an empty house to keep the ghosts aroundlike the bottom dropping out of a carnival ride the world keeps spinning and i never fall. roses in my head curtsy as they tumble together kissing cousins after twenty odd years i am tired of my own brain.

death carries a white rose and he sits on my front porchsmelling of cotton candy and rotten teeth and i don’t mind him at all.

I.

Because as we fell, through the threshold, drunk,Bare bottle from your gargoyle grasp slipped And kissed the afghan—broke bottom to trunk

And ribbed shards emerald glass wings clipped—Blasted. You meant to place it on black, oak table? Well I watched it strike, a guilty gavel.

The vernal has come, there go the petals, From the brunet grass burst the mallard ducks— (We found the smallest hidden nesting dolls)

And we sit staring, thinking “Damn, that sucks…”(We’re not talking about shattered bottlesOr wove centaurs golden bubbly mottles)

Or droplets strung by atomic archers Translucent alcohol beads burst thither,Little liquid birds, that ocher bright spray

That flew far away, like loose lover wordsElixir splashed, tiny wings wither (Vanished with poise of funeral marchers;

Mordantly reborn, no girl in white rose—Only grand inquisition—no repose.)We gaze where the cork tore through the painting,

The canvas spattered with abstract bullshit,Monsters oozing guts—look, man, stop feintingStop glancing the mess; why won’t we just quit?

Oh tigers, peacocks; smeared, sponged wet (I want to celebrate, to drink up yet!)We on yellow velvet chair, mesmerized,

Lean. And minutes pass like fog gondoliers— Accruing weight, by clock-tick hypnotized. Our sober laughing crescents fitful fears.

III.

we cobbled togetherour conflicting piecesburied the fruitful past,cobblerwarm under the crust,tucked up the edgesand indented the toproom to breatheslice us into segmentsand sell us to the worldirrational numberswe cobbled something togetherand tried not to call it love.

ICold Duck Elegy

IIMyalgia.

IIIoven mitt