confessions of a bad drummer

i start a rock band inside the telephone.
call a girl with half my name.
we sit in the graveyard without heads.
the man with the hook for a hand gazes
longingly at our teeth. i buy a mannequin 
& pretend she is my prom date. my real 
prom date smells like grease & shoes.
i am lying, he doesn't show up. he is 
where my head is. a close lamp. tongue pulled
for the brief light. we keep the drums in 
the attic. i go up there to pretend to be
cool. i don't know how to drum & every time
my dad tries to show me how, they demolish
another old house that's falling apart. 
i accept that the town cannot handle
more of my hands. i explain to a friend
that until last year i moved at least once
a year since i was eighteen. room after room.
each space like a rosary bead. holy thumb
over a smooth surface. i have been trying 
to name the decades of my life. the horrible
mysteries. the lustful mysteries. 
the wandering mysteries. i catch a drumstick
at a show i did not actually attend.
i carry it around like a spare rib. smash the stick
against the cymbal moon. build a blanket fort
from microphone stands & sheets.  sleep there
until i'm old enough to run away for more
than just a few hours. instead of practicing 
i put my energy into daydreams. i get on
a tour bus. i play sold-out shows without
any music. my neighbor above me has
a drumset made of children. mine is made now
of book & a tape recording of my father
singing to practice for a mass he will not attend.
i cannot be trusted to keep a beat. instead,
i am the butter house with a skylight. 
when given the chance, i always let the stars in.