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.

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.

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?'

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.

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.

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.

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.

when your wine comes out

of a bag

it has no time to breathe.

its notes are stuck in the

packaging, like trapped

birds that sing into

breathless plastic.

i swirl the wine

in the glass

to decant its essence.

it comes to life,

gasping.