Brave New World

 We'll be hearing the snow sound tonight.

Seven years of not understanding a single sound.

Perhaps even eight, perhaps it's been eight.

I was upstairs under the bed earlier, being scary,

being a snow sound myself, Long Island Railroad ghost,

outside I was being group-stalked or there were helicopters,

the FBI was there and so were all of you, who I encountered

in the forest in the worst throes of puberty 

when my mother gave me the better room out of guilt, well,

this guy won't get the better room out of me, no way,

and neither will any of you, blaring snow sound all night long

I'm hiding, I'm a monster, I'm down here,

I cleaned out under the bed because of the baby and also

to become personally frightening I was hissing and going

"bam!" "bam!" and then the storm came, coincidence? 

Also I can't stop crying.

Last night I found a fire eater whose brain was lost,

all the people who formed the fabric of the things

we used to laugh about they're all being group-stalked,

there are helicopters, the FBI, and all of you

no longer believing in herbal medicines or convergences

we're all hiding under the bed it's not safe to listen to Coast to Coast

anymore, there's no more bigfoot he's been replaced 

the snow sound is part of it but January 31st you look beautiful to me,

I believe in general deviousness but not like this, not when it means

we can't go to the herbal doctor anymore and 

we can't trust a soothing voice, like Julie's, what does Julie believe now,

probably something entirely false,

I don't believe in fairies, I don't believe in fairies, I don't believe in fairies

(staring at my computer for seven years, perhaps eight, no, ten, fifteen, but honestly not quite twenty)

oh except twenty because I'm 36 now so twenty years,

but what is the snow sound? Does it keep the trains safe in the storm?

January 31st is beautiful to me, inside for three days like I've always wanted,

cleaning under the bed and having no beliefs

watching the beliefs pile up around me.

Quite Early Morning

missing in me is a clock,

the only thing that ever dinged 

at dawn was grief, how grateful

I was to rise unassisted red faced

too long since the last night's weep

and ready to begin again and now

with the classic hope of all my species'

time, I cannot rise, I do not have

the energy of those teary bells

to peal and rouse me from

the gilded prison of my bed

A Long Goodbye

 Area becomes too small and shrinks, too, a year, or two.

A walk through others' windows, from one peer to the next,

and somehow no one's home though everybody is and I can see right in.

I can see right in. 

God, I've been seeing in so long, the houses just like mine, the ones that aren't,

the first floors and the seconds across the street and still I just don't know,

what to look for or long for or work for now,

what to work for now.

The home becomes the project when the project melts away.

A rug, the closets, how to still the dust the microbes and make space,

where to throw the projects past that keep the corners filled,

with the circle well and truly gone,

the circle's truly gone.

Each of too many points blasted away by other homes or projects

or by death, or birth, I guess, by work or just exhaustion or by age.

What once might be used again will never again be used,

and neither will you, your mind, like that,

never again like that. 

Last Year Was Better But Nevermind

 morning melting later and later, the shoulder I sleep on less somehow more crunched so Matt says "happy birthday" and tries to crunch the other way and rises, as always, before me.

Already some is lost, a big bowl of only a liquidy breakfast addresses the number one need of thirst, not hunger, the day becomes still for a long time in the computer and a form distracts me from the snow, Matt says "is it an eclipse?" and flowers come.

At 1:30, 2, 2:30 finally up and a walk, half an hour away from forgetting therapy and an hour and a half away from realizing, the "overlook" park in pieces the angle homes I love and seem like gateways Kathryn comes outside at 3. 

Somehow Matt is home though we were outside together, I call the therapist, apologize "I couldn't think because it's my birthday so I could not perceive Tuesday" Matt makes a lunch with cream today, but late and I've never talked to mother for less than forty minutes and again today. 

Life gets hard in the bathroom but Matt's determined to do the firehouse challenge, once mentioned in July and now why not. The outdoor indoor isn't right, all the prizes gone but never mind. Fried pickles for me and Ryan's worried about iconography, which makes sense. No singing when there are walls, though, no singing when there are walls. 

Mid 90's-Present

On repeat

the Brando in the bathroom

"This pen will just not focus after fish"

says Brando in the bathroom, after Jeremiah died,

after Brian died, after Bob died, mythology of

red-draped basement apartment in the West Village,

rent-stabilized but didn't need to be, won an Obie

never won an Obie, never will win an Obie

(because Brian died?) but there's the Brando in the bathroom,

of some great worth, my birth chart says I'll never worry about money

but I always worry about money but I refuse to believe my birth chart is wrong

so Jeremiah must have meant otherwise about "worry" or "money" 

or maybe he meant about the Brando, foresaw his own death and knew

he had the Brando, the Brando that would go in the bathroom

so no one has to "worry" about "money," (he won an Obie, Jeremiah)

that's all gone, every New York sense memory is from 

the waiting room at St. Vincent's in the 1990's 

and the kind of video you borrow from the library

where the skyline looks like it shouldn't have gone in the washer

so, so many times, but the Brando is in black and white.

My father took the Brando out of the bathroom but now I never go in anywhere anymore

so I wouldn't know whereto went the Brando, "this pen just will not focus" or

"this pen will just not focus" or what does "after fish" mean? Like a diner

filled with autographs like the Galaxy used to be and full of aliens too,

a diner must be just as bad for photos as the bathroom, with the smoke and grease

the constant threat of fire and the 24 hour light. I don't remember about Bob.

How wonderful to be able to say "well that means never now" and finally relax,

so many others might still win an Obie and think they will but won't 

and might not have the Brando in the end when everyone's alone

and every stage is dark. 

Family "Vacations" but Never Again

Balloon illumes in a Michigan field,

bees live in the grass.

Eugenicist cereal museum,

time of my life.

How do we feel about zoos these days?

Enclosures light the sky.

The 2021 air show is still on for now,

The 2021 balloon illumes,

The 2021 rock bands in a field,

The 2021 weather permitting,

The 2021 I broke my arm,

The 2021 no I didn't,

The 2021 I learned to fly a hot air balloon,

The 2021 we could never have afforded that,

The 2021 how much money do they have, really?

The 2021 I don't know my cousins' children's names

The 2021 air show is still on for now,

and on and on and on and on

Is It Worth It?

How much of me is doing the digesting?

The stomach, lungs, brain, memories

capacity for love, attention,

nerves on the right side,

tear ducts, whatever is the endpoint of the part that holds the eyes in,

the hips and, of course, the heart.

All these bits frozen in the throes of effort

crushed by the endless demands of

complex carbohydrates and cruciferous greens,

am I dying? Can I be a good friend,

partner, person when paralyzed by bile?

And when I must eat again? And again? 

Always needing to squeeze every ounce

of energy to liquify a nut? And then,

once released from the prison of digestion exhaustion,

the process of elimination! Elvis weeping

on the throne, unable to move forward

with my life and always being told 

"drink more water," well that takes

effort too! It sides along a plastic coated tongue,

unabsorbed my whole inner tube a rubber island

where the water beads and never helps

but always needs refilling. Well,

some people never eat at all, you say,

I think, I know, it's bad, moaning 

at my casserole, clean water and the

porcelain punctuations of the long, 

long night...

Substitution

 Conjuring ham-ness from a non-ham situation,

cream, smoked paprika, mustard,

I never liked ham but I understand

what ham can do for a meal, what ham

has to offer. For a non-ham situation,

it was hammy enough, but not so much

that it awakened the sense of sunburned danger

that ham, for me, has always had.

Whence comes this ham-need/ham-dread

ingenuity or, sometimes, disappointment?

Was I born knowing the ham-ness of my body?

On Easter thinking the flesh smelled like

my mother in the sun and knowing 

both ham and Easter were not for me.

What is for me? The pork of my own self,

inhaling breadcrumbs but still

too stringy for slaughter, the reddened

flesh of better days the ham of

middle-class comfort diced into

the strata of my meal. 

Dreams Closed

 Had nothing but then

a long look in the mirror

blood rushes to the rims

my god I'm crying

champagne's all popped without me,

poor me,

I want to speak our common language,

shared vision like foreheads touching

in a cartoon universe

but "we're too old for this shit"

as in, too old to be amateurs oh ama, amour

and me I chose to go no further

to stand at the gate and keep watch

and run when trouble came

Other Urban

 Trees shake with screams,

six raccoons one after another

possum (opossum?) gazing in 

at clutter thinking "who is here

that lives this way?" the screams

double-tongued like a junior high

jazz floutist real cool great for his age,

many sounds in one, pure sonic power

they're martyring a cat tonight,

little zealots,

opossum sitting solemn alone, below,

we killed half the tree with barbecue smoke

it taps a note of vengeance on the window

with its one good branch, bless, I never meant - 

was I asleep? The screams awake me,

my cat's enemy the neighbor's cat

crucified against a bleeding sky

"oh my!" I think, the screams like

laughs instead, trills, the flute is sharp

the cats are fine, opossum turns and trundles

six raccoons retreating in the dawn

Real Estate Ad

Totally uninspired always this empty ear

waiting to receive to be so blank so

cavernous so minimal and clean that

a tasteful thought might just move in,

brag to friends say "look at the lifestyle in here"

clean lines, white walls, big windows 

great flow, modern, but sturdy, real

but not weathered or needing repairs.

Maybe the thought could come from a horse.

Inside here it's like a barn maybe, high rafters,

no rooms, stables but just as a chic touch,

rough hewn wood and so much space 

that a horse would just say something, something

to give the thought a place to go that would fit

its established horsey lifestyle having exited the equine.

What do I have to do to be the kind of person a horse would talk to?

What do I have to do to welcome a wholly new reality,

the door is open there is nothing in the way the hallway

lit by glimmering neurons just waiting for a guest, 

no other inspiration to dominate the conversation

no competition for the best seat and plenty of room to stretch.

What more could you want, vague underworld of animals,

great net of consciousness, O something somewhere please

do

come here.

Reform

The American Journal of Eugenics

Successor to Lucifer the Light-Bearer, radical women's right's engine,

published by a man,

1907-1910.

Lucifer the Lightbearer

Devoted to the Emancipation of Women from Sexual Slavery,

published by a man,

1883-1907.

Come back from Comstock?

The science, the palatable, the official,

the wrong.

All reformers agree, and all reformers agree.

Storytelling

 Science fiction January fantasy February

Spring at the birth of the world.

What's happening tomorrow?

With this colander and a pencil, three sheets of paper and one tennis ball

show me how it all began. 

Now here let this hat be grief.

It was in the props closet, deep in the dark in the back of the room. 

When the universe was born I (...)?

This is how to be a puppeteer. This is how it all began.

Now these many hats are grief, show me the hats all together, show me grief.

It's Spring! Birth of the world, all science fiction is religious

and fantasy is at a crossroads. 

Colander, pencil, three sheets of paper, and one tennis ball.

Rough Night

 Wait for tonight's cowardly hour.

The dishwasher dings from ten hours to one, ten hours to one and back again.

You don't deserve a dishwasher.

Tonight's cowardly hour from four to five, or five to six, hip bones soldering shut.

You'll need a hip replacement, one day.

Hour grows longer each night of the month, two days to six days to twenty or more.

What were your grandfathers really like.

Jim Heinze who used these words and sat in a vast leather chair, Republican, "vote Jim,"

awake long nights and beloved, but who, to you.

Nineteen fifty nineteen eighty five nineteen I don't know. 

Cowardly hour for lovers, too.

What was it you said once and why did you do what you did or always do.

Count down and back up and you'll never work again.

One beautiful night in Manhattan on a weeknight seeking strangers relived, relived.

Cowards are righteous and angry, too.

How does anyone raise a child, how did your mother, who was that strange family

somehow watching you.

Where is all the money.

Tonight's cowardly hour.

Argument.

Thesis.

Failure.

Love.

Too Much Before Too Little

Regeneration!

Despair?

Or relief!!

Buried head, with arms

the earth above, with hands

the flowers on the grave

of all waking life, with body

curled snail-like and still.

What happens when you sleep too long?

Starting over and over, 

each dream cycle so begins again,

and again, exhausting repeats

syndicated dullness 

in the deepest reaches of the soul,

the theme song of nothing to do,

no reason to wake, no cause to rise

Doubt

It's only going to get worse

THAN WHAT

what is best versus worst what is the standard from which to deviate, who is the deviant, who should be, what is worse what is worst what do you mean? 

Presentist perfectionist know thyself, show thyself, what kind of worse is worrying you?

GET USED TO IT.

Ok, but given my curse of human adaptability I couldn't not get used to it even if I tried, and I've tried!

Ever been told to clean your room when you're already doing it? Goddamn. Ethereal voices rolled over in

my consciousness, making my own mother over and over. 

Well, just WAIT this is just the BEGINNING. 

What linear ghoul has invaded the text? Who dares flatten the endless loops of my understanding, who traffics in beginnings and endings in the endless coil of how it goes? Beginning of what? Worse than what? Used to what? 

Continuity, change, these lovers at war, who for?

One Weekend or Many Once, a Long Time Ago

Communion with city lights

but distant.

When we were young they all lived together

or did they.

When were we all as one and the children

all as one?

When we were all as one, but when?

Did we? 

I remember. Late nights and sips

of vodka,

Music and the roar of jest,

and warmth,

Or just one night, was it only

once? 

Did we live as one for twenty years

or one night?

How many of us were there, how many

children?

Who cared for the children,

everyone?

Where was it that we lived all together

when we did?

Or didn't?

Miracle

 Parched now always and resentful of it,

why consume to stay alive, again?

Faucet humming like a mystic drone,

"come closer," what? "come closer, come here, come."

Parched still (always) and it's dreadful, is it?

Eye up on the swan-curved nozzle's tip,

head craned so to see the light within.

The light? Yes light, not darkness, no, but light!

The eye upon the nozzle spies a tunnel

(still parched though, always, desperate for a drink)

and through the tunnel such familiar roads,

that tears flow with the fresh that floods the face.

So parched and pissed off waiting to be slaked,

this infrastructure fiction skipping steps,

this sci-fi sight of home erases labor,

this fantasy of water in the home.

Not doing the work right now, unfortunately

seeing the trouble and being hyper aware of sitting,

always sitting, I have to keep sitting to see the trouble

but with all the action the sitting seems more extreme

and all the texts and I'm thinking "I'm sitting!"

I'm thinking "I'm going to die from sitting" 

It's the biggest news in the world to me right now,

this slow death and no one cares, checking in on each other's feelings

but not on my skeleton or whatever blockages I'm building,

they're saying "I can't believe it" and I'm thinking 

"I know, I should just get up and walk around, but the trouble!"

Bun

O grave injustice of leaky body,

O unsealed bin of bile!

Can I form these parts I so detest? 

This inefficient fleshliness, this mess!

And I am to make one, of these? 

This recipe for bloat and spit and blood? 

Am I to string these organs in a row,

paint-by-numbers, splotch my drops about?

Who handed me these tools, too crude to carve a foot

Too botched to bake a brain, who tricked me,

locked the door, and set the timer on the test? 

Which metaphor will make a man, and soon!