assembly required 

i have been reading up
on how to become a ghost.
i think i was made to stay
past my welcome in a house
no longer my own. i was born
in the united states which means
i was fed a sick promise 
that everything should arrive to us whole. 
someone else can fuss with the pieces. 
when i get ikea furniture, i throw out
the instructions & call my father.
he parks his spaceship on the roof
& we both build something
i did not want. my favorite desk was 
an accident. not meant to be
so tall & narrow. i have been trying
to resist this place by honoring
fragments or something. as a child i sucked 
on wild onions. fresh from the ground.
each a little planet full of screaming
desires. i have never managed 
to develop patience. instead, 
i eat the grapes now. i turn on 
the oven & climb inside. a little
poetic heritage. golden in the heat.
golden in the night. i have managed 
to learn once in awhile. this house 
with its holes in the walls & spider roof.
hammer & hammer. the wires
in my parents' upstairs that throb 
when we are too eager to stay 
in the light. i picture a garden
of screws. a forest of forest. i do not want
to see pieces where there are none. 
when i'm feeling really awful i drive
the my childhood cvs. an old woman in town
told me, "that used to be swamp."
i like to stand in the parking lot
& picture it. an instruction manual
comes in the mail without the materials.
i do not follow it. who knows 
what it was for. if it was from god,
it was best that i disposed of it.
i have no interest in the divine.
i want to love here & now &
without any words to live by.