waiting

the centipede truth is
that there are too many people
who know the truth.
sometimes i walk
in the obelisk garden
carrying a sickle & a brown paper bag.
when i was a child 
a man the size of a truck
would come & steal my lunch box
every day. i thought of it
not as theft but as paying a toll.
are you paying rent
for living in your body?
i know that i am. i try to eat
as a guard dog does. just enough
to stay alive. in the garden 
you can harvest stone.
i do so with my bare hands.
blood knuckles. blood bones.
the truth is a place where birds hit windows.
where a father is not a father
but a burn pile of all your fingers.
a shower curtain turned 
into a stage curtain. i make 
a debut. i have a pile in the yard 
where i dump my teeth. i am a shark.
i am a windmill. there should be
a timer that lives above our heads
that tells us when it will be safe
to say everything. it will never
be safe to say everything. 
i put my tongue in a canary cage
& walk into a coal mine. 
the earth has a stomach 
of diamonds & rush.
a vein of water. the well in the yard
coughing up spiders. 
dear self, you are not waiting,
i release you from your elevator.
let's not be a pond singer.
put the bones in a backpack 
& throw it over the side 
of the bridge. tell the garden,
"i have never been here before,"
especially if you have.