I am going to do a few things can’t nobody follow
I am going to be a sputtering gray zeppelin in what used to be sky, the wah-wah pedal wind and everything else. I am going to show you up with congas and weird smiles, a touch without skin, skin for eyes. If you perceive a lake before you then you perceive me, my body, a wide low place of drowning. Watch: I am going to do one thing that will leave you breathless. I am going to make you perform a great act of sorrow, over and over, after me. Watch, repeat. Look at you all: tumbling down, hanging there. You didn’t know you were loose rocks shaken out of a mountain after eons and eons of waiting and try, after my seismic went. You can feel it now though, this tough, invisible tie to the air. You’ve always been floating. Just pick up your feet and watch.
And then I noticed there were no young men
No old ones either. There was no low breathing, no disturbed fuses and flophouse laughter, nothing to be said about crack pipes or tatter or fractions. Just trees: what Dante says happens to us in a certain circle. These crooked things living on their own voices, their same sounds. Bark peels from them without the wind having to help. They are terrified of themselves and their tallness. Don’t get it twisted, Dante baby. They do not cry out for having had a piece of them broken, for having bled again. They cry only because their branches sometimes reach each other out of the long dry stillness. They cry out, quivering, simply for having touched.
A dream like a plaid shirt that takes forever to fall to the floor
Is still just a dream. My chest cavity is a window of plaid. I unbutton it. I am standing in the room I died in. The wall here is made of plaid, the body in the bed too. What pushes inside me is not a heart. It is a hummingbird with tartan wings, a beak as thin and sore as a child’s broken arm. It is whatever you cannot imagine the air can do, a choice between all the air in the world and none at all.