Zombie Apocalypse
I kept thinking you would grow tired of being dead because there was nothing to do. You were always doing something. The year after you left, I tried my best to keep all the plates spinning your mania wouldn't let you drop. I failed. Most days I couldn't get out of bed, much less weed your garden or continue renovations. I kept the cat alive. I kept myself alive. Everything else went to shit.
I had dreams that the zombie apocalypse came and you were a zombie and we rode out the apocalypse playing Yahtzee and drinking what was left of the wine cellar. Then I would wake up and you were still dead. So I would go down to the real wine cellar and drink until I went back to sleep. I drink only the finest wines now, but I'm still the trailer trash you found those years ago, as you were apt to point out whenever you were drunk.
how to split a hair
boards of canada float through
the apartment space like lost
sparrows. jezebel makes some
chicken ramen. the room smells like
noodles and taste of san antonio
brand coffee, which is sweeter to
the nose than other coffees.
the song changes
and xylophones make an impact
they didn't intend.
the woman who couldn’t be thin enough
she would jog all year round
even in san antonio summer when
every year a news crew would
show you could fry an egg on
the pavement. she looked like
a skeleton to my young eyes.
like... you could see the structure
of her bones. mom would point her
out, never knowing her name. i
asked why she was like that and
mom said that no matter what she
did there was something in her
brain which told her she was
never right, and that she can't be
helped. and i imagined her in
a studio apartment, eating
celery, crying into the mirror.
surely there was somebody she
loved who could tell her enough.
that summer we moved to austin
and nobody talked about the
woman who jogged like she
was trying to purge something
lodged next to the heart. and
people in san antonio will
remember her now that i have
said it. they will say 'oh yeah,
what ever happened to her?'
recycling
the kitty mews like
the saddest sound,
but she is happy and
well-tended. jezebel
does the dishes which
is a job we both do.
i am writing poetry
which is a job i do.
later i will take out
the recycling bin, which
is my job, and i will
reflect on all the
good i am doing for
humanity by recycling.
i once dated a woman
who was so good at
recycling the city
gave her a sticker
to put on her bins,
like a good report card.
i haven't changed the
world enough to put a
sticker on my bins,
which will one day
fall apart and
become trash.
identity
i remember an old acquaintance
who had three years to live some
10 years ago (kidney failure). he
once gave me the coordinates to
a patch of arizona desert where
he stayed some years prior. the
spot was marked by all his insulin
needles stuck into a saguaro cactus.
there in the ground he had buried
his i.d. and social security card
and $20. he said that he wanted
me to steal his identity after he died.
i wish i'd kept those coordinates
and lived a better life so i could
afford a car to go out there.
i want to see where the cactus
grows over the needles,
and becomes something else.
nothing to write about #2
i don't notice what people
say around me; their actions
are not really a mystery because
that implies a curiosity i lack.
but there is noise and movement
coming from other humans and i
am unmoved by their tumults. i
notice how people drive--the
throb of the gas pedal, the
pound of the brake. i notice
their flawed gestures of careening
metal and know there are meat packets,
delicate as ground chuck,
driving these horrid machines.
We all go at least 60 mph to
various destinations, knowing
not all of us will make it.
nothing to write about #1
i don't watch the news
because i already know
what's happening. gaza
is being bombed all to
hell and the media is
running cover for it.
this is not my thing
to write about. it doesn't
belong in the belly of a
poet, amid the coffee
and loathing. it belongs
in museums of atrocities
after justice for palestine.
what have i got to say about
it? my bilious intent would
only rupture the cause. it's a
new year and i'm soured on
the old one like it was
premised on tearing apart
people and buildings that
had business being whole.