Guts

 

 

I enter a room.

A cat vomits as if to say

 

welcome home. Scattered

bones on the floor,

 

tiles of fur and fever:

welcome. Outside, the parks

 

are rinsed clean. Grass sprays

across my window.

 

This clean violence

for the Green and Livid.

 

*

 

Nothing I say leaves

this room. Not a foot,

 

not a single verb.

This room is meant

 

to be a cage to swing

sweetly in. Arm in

 

arm, slow scythe of

each doorway expanding

 

with each breath I hold in

until I can’t.

 

Remember, what you can’t

see can hurt you.

 

I will stay here,

getting fat in the eyes.

 

*

 

Braced against a wall,

I will bite at you.

 

I will take what

I’ve come to claim –

 

do not cry and

cry to no priest.

 

My mother told me

when consuming a whale,

 

take one bite at a time

or it will consume you.

 

Take heed. Take tail,

tongue, et al.

 

*

 

I enter a room

full of garlands slung

 

in a death march.

Flowers crowd the sill

 

in whiskey water.

I drink until my eyes

 

flood the entire state

of Jersey.

 

The moss turns whiskey

under my mouth.

 

This year, there will be

a mudslide worth watching.

 

This year, we won’t

need proof.

 

*

 

Outside, geese shit

on themselves.

 

It is the season of giving

and I gave everything

 

over to you: forgiveness,

apology, forgiveness.

 

Can you imagine roses

rotting in the trash?

 

It’s simply too much.

Delicate February

 

and its dunce hat.

 

*

 

To pull a rabbit

out of what?

 

The future is not stupid.

To make a critical mass,

 

leave a spoon of honey

out for the ants.

 

This will be my army,

my kin. The yard

 

is lined with dumpsters

I know too well.

 

Sunshine spills

on the oil slick

 

of last night’s dinner.

My face shines

 

in the slick, subtly

sublime.

 

*

 

In the case of a tornado,

retreat into the deepest

 

interior. Steal anything

you can get your hands on,

 

including yourself.

Nightly, my army

 

circles the earth’s bruise.

Split plum of the heart,

 

stuck to the floor.

I’m unable to rightfully

 

stomp. Crows pass by

my pupils, recognizing

 

every face I shouldn’t.

Decisions in confrontation.

 

Best to forgive or fork over

your better half.

 

*

 

The guts of a cow spill

onto the killing floor.

 

I scoop out the guts

of a cloud and smear it

 

across my eyes.

Intestinal, the false ray

 

of a false sun unravels.

I slither to the light,

 

suffocating so.

Below the horizon,

 

crows fly across graves

off the interstate.

 

The pouring concrete

freezes, paralyzed

 

in ice, smog.

 

*

 

Sometimes, crickets go off

at the same time.

 

Sometimes, my legs itch involuntarily.

Sometimes, I want to be able

 

to hold my own hand.

This need is inhabitable:

 

fat tapeworm of the belly,

crooning in corridors.