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and all of this must be preserved against time
though once a doctor made it very plain:
if there are some patients who feel cool
because they wrote a poem or two
let them try and operate on someone's brain
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step out of the dream box, o Hamlet, your hour draws near
step out of the dream box
step out of the dream box
you can wear a colorful dress and sail and sail down the river
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I am the water running down gutters,
the sound of conversations echoing off walls.
Isn't it beautiful? I ask,
The things that bind us.
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can it be that you’re a miracle (I always hear this word),
not a real one, but as if, as if it were a question of belief
the belief or knowledge that you are an independent
heart’s pulse, viscous dust quickened by lightning
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For the concrete columns
Holding up this world,
For it all, once upon a time
I paid with lilac leaves.
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but I am far from the stars
far from the deft twists and turns of the mind
from the life that others would approve of
but is that any reason to complain?
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Memory still erases and tears,
Erases and tears.
You would want it all to end more quickly,
The calendar to break off around Christmas time,
So in your inner manger, it would be all warm and…
Cities are just cities. This one too. On the road to Bethlehem.
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I watch them
and write, my paper placed
on the AA book
as I wait for my meeting –
will my separation crack
with the ice of the lakes
and will I too feel
I am about to begin
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but still I yearn to see
some providence for the sick, some thing
that shines inside more brightly than the light,
negating the heavily breathing I –
are you ready for eternity?
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the body remembers it all the books that ruin your life
when they are beset by agents of darkness bed bugs
what kind of an idiot watches a portal open up in his eyes
cold matter breathing darkness the landlady becoming
military police i rip all of my books into shreds
and i glue my own book from these
