playing pretend

in the city today everyone plays pretend.
the food vendors hand out invivisble hot dogs 
people move their mouths like chewing
& they can almost taste the salty meat &
the sharp yellow mustard. 
others perch on non-existent benches.
we are unsure if they are supposed to be
people or the missing pigeons.
overnight everything material evacuated
& left us here. just our skin & our fingers--
a gesture can reveal routine & desire.
we kept moving without it all. i walk 
& the sidewalk is a sheet of glass.
there are holes in the sky where advertisements 
used to be so i stand there a moment
& try to imagine what they wanted me to buy.
my wallet is a nest of inverted eggs
all glistening with empty. we stand on
each others shoulders & ask for at least
just one cloud so we can pretend to see
something in it. the buses become 
herds of people who travel together
marching the streets that have become angles.
the geomtry is us-- our corners &
our heights. there was a formula once 
for how to get out of this but i left it
in a notebook & there are no more notebooks.
what is a city without trees? what is 
a city without piles of garbage & 
stray shopping carts? 
we fall in love more easily now
without nothing to buy each other.
we say i'll meet you when the sun turns 
flat & clear. seeing through the other side
we notice blankeness. it's not a simulation
if this is the only process left.
i eat bags & bags of chips--
telling myself that the first one
is barbeque & the next is sour cream.
there's no train to remove us from the city.
we are the city. you can't take the 
body out of the measurement. i weighed 
one-hundred thirty pounds last time
i checked. i have my friends picj me up
& weigh me with their fingers.
they say i am much heavier than 
i let myself believe. alone in my apartment
i keep a secret-- i do own one thing--
one last object. a spoon which 
i use to check my reflection. i see my face
long & stretched thin like a messy spill of pigment.
i touched the metal to my tongue. 
i tell myself how lucky i am to have this.
outside the people make car-horn noises.
the people make sirens & screams.
the people chew as loudly as they can.
i go out to join them.

wall flowers

alone i talk the flowers off the walls. 
they fall down one by one like children 
tumbling down staircases. our house 
had too many windows to clean. the flowers 
are all one species but various different colors.
all color goes back to yellow-- burning 
& untrue. i peel yellow out of my body 
& become a wall of plummets. i tell the flowers
each day buckles into the next.
my stream of consciousness is full of flowers--
all of them floating towards that great television
where the ocean used to be. she tells me 
i'm always waiting & it's true. there's always
another flower puckered there wanting 
to know what i am made of. i list ingredients:
flour, sugar, hail, glass, shards of canyon.
the flowers gave up their throats for beauty 
& i ask them to teach me how-- how to relinquish
that control over words & names. the water 
smells like lavendar & is getting deeper. 
where does color emerges from? i'm looking.
all the closets in my apartment 
are too full. it's sometimes hard to close the doors.
i would do anything to have a basement again.
the walls creep closer together each night
while i'm not keeping vigil. the flowers
turn to gnats--a rainbow of blur like
a living oil spill. fossil fuels know
all our secrets & that's why we have
to burn them all. the flowers too know what i mean
when i say i need to sleep. there are
only a few left--the floor scattered with 
their visages. their blinking teeth.
the bows of a thousand empty boxes.
i forgot to get you a gift for you birthday 
so you disappeared & i am sorry for that.
i lay on the floor with the carcasses
& wait for the wood to turn to water.
there's something good on TV but
we don't have cable. we just have
the haunting dark screen glowering 
over us. life is a series of entities 
watching each other for mistakes. 
i repin the flowers to the walls 
& start all over again.

apartment acotlye 

i used to wish i could 
take the altar server robes home--
staring at myself in the full-length mirror
at the corner of the sacristy. 
on the other side of the room
the priest would put on his vestments--
purple, long, & flowing. his movements 
like a lake dressing itself.
we never spoke-- just exchanges looks
through the mirror. his nod 
a signal to go light the candles 
on every corner of the altar.

i open my closet now & find it full 
of those off-white robes. 
all my other clothes gone. 
thank god, i think to myself &
i dress myself for mass with 
a brown chord around my waist. i walk around
my house as if it's a church--
carefully, pretending everything 
is holy & made of gold. the cabinets 
are full of hosts. the windows 
have turned to stained-glass & 
the street lamps outside cast strange 
shadows onto the wooden floor.

i try to remember what it is
an altar server is supposed to do.
i remember washing the priest's hands
before communion-- cool pitcher of water 
pouring over his wrinkled fingers.
i fill a glass with water & pour it
all over myself. i'm ready 
for god now. i'm ready for a sacrifice--
something biblical. the priest would
flick the water off his hands before
rubbing them dry with a towel i'd hand him.
i took my duties seriously
as if one acoltye held the whole mass together.

drying myself i search the apartment
for a bell. something to ring to signal 
life's importance. i find no bells so
i clink together pots & pans. a chime.
a ringing. this wakes god up & he presses his face
to the window-- only briefly. i find
the mark of his breath there. 
i am a good server. i am a ghost here
in the church. i light dozens of candles
& the flames laugh. i take off the robe
& put on another.

ring-holder 

two statue white hands poised side by side.
empty & grasping lightly at the ceiling.
smooth & simple fingers. i was sure
these were women's hands 
when i found them in the attic 
that afternoon. it was like
running into a family member. i slipped
my own hand around the still white plastic.
the hands were mounted on 
a little black stage to help them stand up tall.
i asked my dad what they were & he said
they were ring-holders.
i began to wonder if they belonged to
one of us. if one of our hands had flew away 
from our bodies. turned into doves
as we slept. turned to tarantulas & 
scaled the walls. i clutched my hands together
as if to hold them in place. in the bathroom 
i stood, to get a better look at my own hands.
my crinkled knuckles. dirt under 
each fingernail. the hands were 
nothing like mine. i wondered how 
my hands would look mounted on 
a little black stage. i clapped for myself
in the bathroom for the acoustics.
imagined myself standing in a tiny church 
without my hands. God placing my hands 
into a tiny black box. what use were hand
anyway? they crept all over. they felt separate
from my body. i decided to talk to the ring-holder. 
i asked them what kind of rings they 
wanted to hold & they whispered
i want a beautiful wedding. here comes
the bride. here comes the bride. 
their voice was the texture of 
fingers brushing against each other.
i cried & told the hands i was never 
going to love someone that much.
they ran their fingers through my hair.
the laced gold rings in between strands
& drew their fingertips across my scalp. 
i felt wonderful. i laid on my back 
in the attic where the air was musty & greenish.
the light shown in through the small
corner window. i raised my hands up 
towards the ceiling-- grasping handfuls
of roof--watched as my fingers filled with
rings. gold & copper & green & silver &
studded with jewels. it took me all night
to pry them all off. all the wedding rings 
of all my family members past--
all those bonds glimmering in a pile
on my bedroom floor. over time 
each ring expanded & thinned to nothing.
i thanked god each day until they 
disappeared. i still check each morning
to make sure my fingers 
are attached to my wrists.

we're experiencing some delays

a train stops underground & becomes
a lady bug with seven spots. we cling
to her back as she walks on the ceiling
of the tunnel. the walls of our old house
were full of lady bugs & i thank her for
visiting the city. she flew all the way here
from pennsylvania. i thank her for 
good mothers. the other people who were
on the train car with me are startled.
the hallway shakes. we're in an air b&b now
& i'm making dinner for them. i'm telling them
a story about how scared i am of centipedes.
i'm shucking ears of corn. another man is 
standing by the counter. he is now my son
& i tell him he makes me so proud. he cries.
i hand him a knife & tell him it's time
he learned to carve the ham. we can't find
the ham so one of us lets loose a snake
hoping it will be drawn to the meat
but instead it just hides & we've lost
the ham & the snake. my son is 
dissappointed in me. i hate being
a father so we're on the sidewalk together.
someone opens their brief case to reveal
a pile of spoons. they clatter 
to the sidewalk. she plays the spoons
against her knee & i cover my ears.
the clacking reminds me of
horse hooves. we're on a horse
with eight legs & its scurrying down 
the dark tunnel. we al remember we just
want to go to work. that's all we
ever wanted & the horse is trying
to get us there. we cling tight
to the horse's long black mane.
a girl tells a story about being young
& collecting plastic horses. her collection
mobilizes to find her. they carry her
from our midst & we try to say goodybe 
but she covers her face & insists that
this is not the last time we'll see her
even though we do not know each other
& we do not want to know each other.
we're on the train again finally & 
the windows fog up with all our fears.
we draw pictures. i write heart after heart.
one man draws penis shapes. a girl
writes "none of this is true" over & over.
we want to stop her. we know it's
a spell but we don't want to accuse her
of being a witch. not after everything
we've been though. she is gorgeous.
we see out reflections underneath 
the fog & realize we weren't going
anywhere after all. we lay on the floor.
we sing songs in each other's voices.
the train starts up again & we plead
with it to stop. no no let us be no one.
let us do nothing forever. but the city
remembered us & to be remembered is 
that hardest burden to bear. i tell everyone 
they are brave. they hang their heads.
they say "we are not brave
we are experiencing some delays."

family reunion on the second floor 

there is a fire but only on the second floor 
of my great-aunt's house. they don't use
the upstairs anymore & the whole floor 
slowly grows farther & farther away 
from the rest of the house. the stretching happens 
only on the inside. 
outside the house is quiant & beautiful.
the fire is also beautiful. i burns everywhere 
& only i know about it. i don't want to scare them.
my aunts are too old for the truth 
fire will bring. it flickers across the banisters 
& toils in the middle of their beds they no longer use.
they sleep in their easy chairs--
tv still on-- tv drowning out the smell
of burning. old stuffed animals burning.
curtains burning--even the faucet in the bathroom
drips with fire. what is fire
asking of them? the first time i saw the flames
i tried to put them out but these days
when i visit i try to talk to them. 
all the ghosts are in the fire. grandfathers 
& grandmothers & dead dogs all winding
between each other. they all want to eat
pears from the tree in the backyard.
they all want permission to go downstairs 
& i tell them to stay where they belong.
i lay in the bathtube of fire 
& i can hear a re-run of a baseball game
on the television downstairs. crack of 
a bat. a player running as far as he can.
if i'm being honest i know 
very little about my aunts & even less
about our family. so then why does the house
show only me this fire? the flames don't destroy me--
they lick my face. they try to turn me
into another ghost but my skin refuses fire.
maybe it's because i am an outsider.
my flesh prickles with light. they are going
to sell the house soon but we don't know when.
the future is wide & burning. they tell me 
the same stories over & over. they fall asleep
for blotches of time. they recognize me yes
but they don't know what i mean
in this house. sometimes i worry 
that i started the fire & just don't remember
but fires are always being born.
i kiss the fire goodbye before i leave.
it rushes around me. the second floor grows
a little bit taller.

display 

macy's window displays opened wide for me 
each morning for me before i walked up 6th avenue.
it's amazing how at any time of the morning
everyone is frantic in the city. brief cases 
full of diamonds & paper weights. men whose reflections
died years ago. i was bright & full of buttons.
i was a glistening dot of salt. in the displays
i took on whatever role the manikins suggested.
they took off my feet & told me to sit.
they dressed me in purses-- expensive purses
with royal names. lifting my head 
from my body they decorated it with sunglasses.
no one stopped to look in at us. outside 
the days whirled by. the sun leaped & leaped 
over his own shoulders. buses full of only tigers
let off right in front of the store. 
in the display i was beautiful. mural grew
from each angle of my joy. a pink siren 
whirled. a mosaic of all kinds of blues. 
in the photographs i was a model. someone pose-able
& ready to be anyone. i became a sun hat.
i became a beautiful girl with long straight hair
& a green lip stick twisting back & forth.
we were all so stunning. we were going to win 
some attention. i was going to
never go to work again. the buildings shrunk 
to the size of people. a field of people all peering in
to see the macy's display. none of them could name
what had brought them there but they were eager 
to purchase something. their wallets were
full of dragonflies. their hearts were full
of smog. new york city gets more beautiful
when you're behind a layer of glass. 
i invite a select few people to join me.
i dress them. we have to sell it 
though i don't know what "it" is. 
we would figure it. the buildings were
jealous. the stop lights turned to necklaces.
they wanted to be worn. every single bicycle 
became two blush compacts & the riders
painted their faces with those hues. 
i was never ready to leave but 
the sidewalk reminded me of desks
& so i would climb out & sell nothing
& walk block after block with 
everyone else.

close ups

i asked for a magnifying glass
because i wanted to burn ants like boys on TV.
i crouch in the mulch by the edge of playground 
& watch the ant hill bleed bodies
into the grass. school lets out at three pm.
streams of ants all rushing. dads factory 
lets him out at three-thirty pm. he doesn't
carry a lunch box like other men. maybe, like the ants
he chew on the edges of things. there are all kinds
of mounds to climb in & out of. choose your
rushing. i can see the ants clearly through the glass. 
all if them are boys. you can tell by how
they walk over each other. you can tell by
their scurrying. i poise the glass above
like god. all of their scribbled dot heads.
i try to search for their eyes but instead
i find their abdomens--they move like
dancers. the ants are dancing i think 
still holding the magnifying glass.
it is true that the glass makes a spot
of heat & maybe if i had more patience i could
focus it & burn the mound. i can't do it.
i try to hold still but my hand always
starts to shake & i wonder what's wrong with me. 
i imagine all these magnifying glasses
waiting up there behind the clouds.
god gets a good look at us. notices our shoe laces
& our fingernails. my pupils become as large as ant heads
& i walk with them. i carry a crumb 
over my head like a sacrifice.  
i feel the world getting hotter 
before i catch on fire. no one is holding
the glass. the school shutters
like a house. the molded earth shifts 
under our sneakers. all of us boys
looking for the glass. i tell them nothing
despite their clamoring. the heat becomes 
intolerable. we all lay down &
that's when i go-- 
a bloom of smoke & flame.
combustion. the other ants screaming 
with their pin-prick voices. each of them:
flashes of fire only seconds later.

in sugar

anything can be saved if boiled in sugar.
i want to make candied jupiter beetles 
& fireflies-- slide them into mason jars for winter.
no--i want to keep ones from every single year.
place them in rows on a shelf no one else 
will ever see. when i say i'm missing something
i mean getting older is like coming apart in fragments.
sometimes i feel like my body is getting 
farther & farther from the some truth. the train 
crushes sugar under wheels. when burnt 
sweet smells sharp like perfect fire.
i want to make sweet the earring you left
in my car & the spoon i stole for my parent's cupboard.
i want to caramelize the pens on your desk & 
that candle almost out of wax. dipping a wide spoon
into the white sugar. the hush of sand. 
cicadas in the sugar. ivy in the sugar. 
my barefeet in the sugar. scrubbing sugar
between your toes to make them shine.
processes of transfiguration. i lay in the sugar
& ask what it felt like to have once been green.
they sugar hushes me & i feel where the wind
might have moved through a field. we are all 
so sweet on the inside. a mother candies 
her child's teeth as they fall out one by one.
i dip strawberries in sugar & they tremble 
like bugs. what are we doing here, you & i?
we both know there's nothing good going to come
from feeling each other's mouth like this. 
the cavities burn holes in our tongues.
sometimes i want to be unrecognizable
but that is silly because no amount of heat
could break down that parts of myself 
i need to run from. someday i will make
only caramel. i will climb into the white sugar
& dream of cane. grab handfuls & write my name
in the grains. watch the grains swallow
each letter. a street lamp folds
in on itself as the ground below turns loose 
& sugary. i'm mixing spoonfuls of sugar
into water. i'm feeding the butterflies 
so much sugar they turn to glass. 
i'm telling them to trust me with their lives--
promising to make a display so that people can see
their fear as the sweetness makes stone.
i feed you spiders in sugar while you sleep
they will come alive somewhere down your through
where they will sew sweet silk webs. 
what am i going to do 
with all this sadness?

on melancholy 

a mouth bites down on a corn chip 
& there was a boy sitting on the end like a ledge.
a certain amount of crumbs are expected.
have you survived a number of explosions this morning?
he opens a jar & our comes a ghost thick
as jam. there's grapes whistling to each other
on their vines--they're scared. a nose 
presses into a face until it becomes a needle.
he grows his finger nails out too long.
they start to snag on stray threads. he takes
a scissors & distresses the hems of his skirts.
his fingernails are made of corn chips.
the mouth is crinkling a bag by shaking it
in its teeth. there's something wrong with 
the bananas-- they won't stop coughing. 
the spirits in the closer name themselves 
acetaminophen after the first item they read.
he chants & stirs a pot of chicken & stars--
the stars are real stars & they sizzle & pop
in the broth. broth of melted gold. he is 
doing his best or so he tells himself. the grapes
are doing their best as well but as for
the ghosts, they could always try harder.
lack motivation. the spoons are over achievers.
the boy steals spoons everywhere he goes.
he makes a family of spoons in his pockets 
& they clink together as if they're chattering.
they are good company. the windshield wipers 
simply don't work. they never have. they don't
press down hard enough on the surface
of the car. his skirt is ugly & he knows it.
the boy arranges crumbs like constellations--
a big spoon a little spoon. all the matters 
is spoons & all their carrying. the weight of
salt in the spoon. little stones. eating stones.
sending condolences. sending a wide range 
of tastes from sour to bitter to sugar.
his teeth turn to sugar & the mouth licks
its lips in front of him. he just wants 
something simple like a white sheet cake or 
a petting zoo with only goats. the world is 
so much shivering. he can't believe it.
he can't believe it's all happening. the ice
in his water. the brothers all chewing
on the horizon. a sky full of lips 
each without any lipstick. what's the point
of a blank pucker? the sourness is a kind
of daylight that creeps in between day & dusk.
the lime green sky. the houses becoming
match boxes. he is flammable & proud.
he wipes the crumbs from his mouth. he tells
a story to his family of spoons about 
being sick & looking for a cure. in the story
he never finds it. tries eating all kinds
of plants. the spoons get emotional 
over the story & he tells them 
not to worry that like everything 
it is just a story. the kernels
of his eyes pop. 
night comes out in globs.