Someone waits at my door. Because he is dead he has time but I have my secrets-- this is what separates us from the dead. See, I could order take-out or climb down the fire escape, so it's not as though he is keeping me from anything I need. While this may sound like something I made up, it is not; I have forgotten how to lie, despite all my capable teachers. Lies are, in this way, I think, like music and all is the same without them as with. The fluid sky retains regret, then bursts. He is still there, standing in the hall, insisting he is someone I once knew and wanted, come laden with gifts he cannot return. If I open the door he'll flash and fade like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds one summer night at the edge of the world.
Worst Things First
A bag of thank-you notes fell
on me and that was enough
art for one day. Culturally speaking,
it was more like a year
in the floral trenches, kicked off
with a single boneless kiss.
Poor sad demon in his poor dead tree—
or is it he who pities me, cockshy
quasihero with a latex lasso,
taking forever to measure
the dimensions of his confinement.
Some other demons have smeared a flock
of sparrows on a blanket, the full filthy
price of a sky under which they smoked
their names. My prize is a set
of teeth, striptease at the nude beach,
audio files of decomposing stars
telling me, if they’re telling me
anything, that theory’s just another word
for nothing left to like.