I wanted a horse. I jumped from a plane. I was not comfortable with your illness. I was a detective at the wedding. I recognized the new way it would be with you in rehabilitation. I saw how the sunset colors on the Navesink River got sad with the lone rower. I lived on a lone planet with my befuddlement. I'd lost a person. I didn't know how to hold my lips. I was like the goose bathing in parking lot puddles. Definitely, I am on a train.
Identity, Self, & Perception 223
I'm sorry I was late. I was pulled over by a cop for driving blindfolded with a raspberry-scented candle flickering in my mouth. I'm sorry I was late. I was on my way when I felt a plot thickening in my arm. I have a fear of heights. Luckily the Earth is on the second floor of the universe. I am not the egg man. I am the owl who just witnessed another tree fall over in the forest of your life. I am your father shaking his head at the thought of you. I am his words dissolving in your mind like footprints in a rainstorm. I am a long-legged martini. I am feeding olives to the bull inside you. I am decorating your labyrinth, tacking up snapshots of all the people who've gotten lost in your corridors.
For a short time after the rape, I found I could move things. Energy birds swarmed from my brain. With a witch's sense of abandoned physics, I set dolls rolling. Back and forth. Like a breathing sound. Using only my night-powered eyes, I pushed the lamp to the dresser's edge. I buried the mirrors in avalanches of freshly laundered underpants. I never slept. I did all these things lying down.
in which my greater self rose up before me accusing me of my life with her extra finger whirling in a gyre of rage at what my days had come to. what, i pleaded with her, could i do, oh what could i have done? and she twisted her wild hair and sparked her wild eyes and screamed as long as i could hear her This. This. This.
Clear — the senses bright — sitting in the black chair — Rocker —
the white walls reflecting the color of clouds
moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms
not important — but like divisions of all space
of all hideousness and beauty. I hear
the music of myself and write it down
for no one to read. I pass fantasies as they
sing to me with Circe-Voices. I visit
among the peoples of myself and know all
I need to know.
I KNOW EVERYTHING! I PASS INTO THE ROOM
there is a golden bed radiating all light
the air is full of silver hangings and sheathes
I smile to myself. I know
all that there is to know. I see all there
is to feel. I am friendly with the ache
in my belly. The answer
to love is my voice. There is no Time!
No answers. The answer to feeling is my feeling.
The answer to joy is joy without feeling.
The room is a multicolored cherub
of air and bright colors. The pain in my stomach
is warm and tender. I am smiling. The pain
is many pointed, without anguish.
Light changes the room from yellows to violet!
The dark brown space behind the door is precious
intimate, silent and still. The birthplace
of Brahms. I know
all that I need to know. There is no hurry.
I read the meanings of scratched walls and cracked ceilings.
I am separate. I close my eyes in divinity and pain.
I blink in solemnity and unsolemn joy.
I smile at myself in my movements. Walking
I step higher in carefulness. I fill
space with myself. I see the secret and distinct
patterns of smoke from my mouth
I am without care part of all. Distinct.
I am separate from gloom and beauty. I see all.
It is late at night, cold and damp The air is filled with tobacco smoke. My brain is worried and tired. I pick up the encyclopedia, The volume GIC to HAR, It seems I have read everything in it, So many other nights like this. I sit staring empty-headed at the article Grosbeak, Listening to the long rattle and pound Of freight cars and switch engines in the distance. Suddenly I remember Coming home from swimming In Ten Mile Creek, Over the long moraine in the early summer evening, My hair wet, smelling of waterweeds and mud. I remember a sycamore in front of a ruined farmhouse, And instantly and clearly the revelation Of a song of incredible purity and joy, My first rose-breasted grosbeak, Facing the low sun, his body Suffused with light. I was motionless and cold in the hot evening Until he flew away, and I went on knowing In my twelfth year one of the great things Of my life had happened. Thirty factories empty their refuse in the creek. On the parched lawns are starlings, alien and aggressive. And I am on the other side of the continent Ten years in an unfriendly city.
After tagging the dust your body is made of sheets flash ceremoniously on the line, in the rain, I am a bone and I take a bone's pleasure around the ball joint, shading inside the names. When I pass your body in the hallway the illumination gives us three minutes of standing adjacent to the fetish dying. Electricity changes, there is no body to acknowledge through touch, I fling forward past my desires into the formal living room with its collection of bells and its collection of jaw bones. The sparkling line runs across my statement of purpose. To endanger all sense, I lay the body out of its own range of prediction. Token animal, what you know is circling the house, waiting for the first person or its shadow to appear. Without looking forward to sinking through the body, I am still mostly lover position. Place the bone in the window spider plant and beacon.
I cut out the "Heart with Snowflake" Myself but it is not mine, Forget This bloody coat bloody shirt, I Think it is the writing that makes Me sick, The scores and scores of Incidental music, this nosebleed all Spring all wet, I'm positively angry with the Impertinence of it! I'm Sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm Trying to! I'm trying to burn a light Between, There's a light and I cable my voice on it but it rips when I trace Anything! WORKS ON PAPER, THE SHIP OF DEATH "Oh build it!" Sings the Heart, "My coat would be so bloodied I could wiggle out of my coat!" – for John Wieners