I can hear the drum of my heart the worm
turned down to zero the befallen ass dial of a man
going straight to voice lessons after school
i was approached by a sleepy woman so tired
and beaten down that she was slurring in her slur i could live
but i would only live for a short while
Worm of my heart
I was apprehended by a constable his eyes
half lidded he wanted to know why
i wasn’t home watching the election
i grimaced
i was living here for years among the grass and leaves for seeming generations
mirrors lit up like stores cameo necklaces
memories in grandfather clocks
swaying like phiten necklaces on ball players
i was beaten down by the gloved hand of new money
i was beaten into a new shape the shape of conga drums
a conga line of parents fathers and mothers mothers and fathers on vacation
Irreversible vacation
Sand on sand on sand on sand
children learn to bury a hole with matching toy shovels
cardboard cutout of an ocean view
in the windows of funeral homes
the cypress tree logo embroidered on employee’s tees the employer is the customer
the customer is dead always
always buried
is always the worm in my mezcal
my my my my my my hammock in the attic
my whiplash in a car rental
ocean worn rocks in my hand waves of graves
worm under glass odometer
warm my heart row my canoe
motion of masturbating
my my my my my
my favored hand
the island I’m on is
ancestral property
what’s up for auction? a neat pile
just that something pulling my shirt
telling me to mind my affairs slurring
do you have nerve damage? in your brain
headaches that make you bedridden
propped up on a pillow one foot in front of the other
symbolic throws laid over the spiritual body
woven and embroidered in a frenzy
the final months weeks weekend days
in assisted living facilities
you
with nothing to clutch onto the sky massive enduring
sour cream in our persons
behind each person a smaller person
identical
sifting out like smoke on a lake house
like cigarillo ash off the end of a cigarillo
fading loose in the mouth
out of the blue blue light before death
green fodder before death
Brown light before death
The white corona of light the really good feeling of hitting all green lights
the circle stain on your dress
your mother removes stains from your clothes with her saliva like her mother taught her to
in the middle of a conversation you’re interrupted by the hum of physical pain
nothing in my house can get rid of the rumbling deep vibrating hum I have in my left ear
it’s not a hum it’s a really soft, tiny, tiny voice
changing in tone, salivating and froth like
i would guess it’s a bird call for spring
it is spring
it is a séance
and friends and family have gathered
at the foot of my grave
my marble bust
i can’t hear the traffic
The different kinds of fucking
The dead body has a very small, almost infinitesimal gravity
but a graveyard like greenwood cemetery
the pull is considerable
enough to change the air flow and direction of a plane overhead
How are you?
Good good
above ground
how are you?
same
this was our conversation
every morning for five years with the janitor at my school
he retired last year and was replaced by someone who won’t talk to me
i can’t control that