marrow

last night
i became a museum--
lingering by
the window & wondering
where cars could
be driving to at 1am
i let them start--
the builders in their
blue overalls--
no one asked if 
i was ready--
it was assumed--
i extended my arms 
for them to work--
building me brick
walls & a little
japanese rock garden--
bamboo wind chimes-- 
modern-art statues 
of green metal &
mischievous sliver--
i love them because
they don't have to 
resemble
anything-- when i 
was little my
uncle would laugh
at the abstract--
the canvas of circles
& shapes--
telling me that art 
can't just be
anything-- 
i want all of 
those paintings
inside of me-- the 
undecipherable-- 
when i was little
at the reading museum 
i fell in love
with paint splatter--
found dragon-wings
in the splashes
& when i rained 
it came down
in jackson pollock's
palette-- my skin
a kind of pinkish canvas
& now a museum--
they put in a revolving
door & an entrance
with pillars--
they drape tarps over
statues as they haul
them inside--
i wanted to swallow
all the pinned butterflies--
all the skeletons
of owls-- renoirs &
monets-- keith harring's
dancing men laughing
with them bodies
down my hallways--
bring them in--
i didn't want
any empty walls--
art kind of keeps me
company--
laying here-- feeling
the frames nailed to
the inside of my
ribs-- lining
the corridors
of my radius-- 
the statues poised 
in my pelvis--
if you feel alone
come visit me here--
keep yourself company
with brush stroke &
plaster mold--
i've made myself
a museum for you--
there are benches to
sit on & 
if you are tired
you can always curl
up sideways & sleep--
if you find the need
to pray that's what my
eyes are for--
their stained glass
glow-- the piano keys
of my crooked teeth--
this is a replica 
of a cathedral
in france where god
would probably live
if he was an artist--
the doors are open--
check your coats--
hang them on each
of my fingers--
take a number from
my tongue--
i'll keep quiet so
the art can be louder--
so you can hear 
your own foot steps
following you--
i hope you're one
of those wonderful
people who doesn't read 
the descriptions
with the paintings--
just walking along
& stepping timidly
into each new world
like a puddle of
oils--
please touch 
everything--
feel the thick
lines of degas thrashing
trees & 
spiral with
van gogh as he manages
to paint the wind--
when you are
down feel free
to get lots in 
the gardens--
there here so you'll
stay longer--
oh who would
have thought that
all i had wanted 
was to be a museum--
your foot steps--
your pauses--
your excited 
silences a kind
of euphoria--
pacing the marrow
of my bones--
you would make
such a nice statue
you know that?