Saturday, February 5, 2011


past a point, all the old radio jingles. everybody who knows / goes /
to melrose. elbows, everything’s a rebound, reaching over her to
smack the SNOOZE. i mean all of you, as i lean on the counter, walk
down the street, and do dishes. i mean on the counter, mean down
the street, and mean dishes. mashed potatoes. all the movements
of my body, another sip of coffee, and you all in that. my lips closed
plans in the snow, fell from a tree. i let the place be the place, keep
being the thing. this can’t have been the place, my skin tells against
the trill cry of a kid that circles my walk, cinching the houses, hoodies
on the corner. the corner’s had enough, mind split as light by window
pane in opposite directions—retreat and research. in the pane, long
nightmare of self. i am too. i am not enough. and in passing, my own
mother, would you look at that, who i’ve run from all this time, as
prescribed, and the splintered minutes of presence the skin recalls
and means. i let my kid sip beer out of the caps, too, and flick them
across the kitchen, which i will paint blue with him.