I’ve let go of purpose:
living, dying, dreaming.
My ego can no longer
sort out my unconscious
and barely knows
what my heart wants. But,
I think that in dreams
where I’m falling, it must
be death. And if he’s there—
I dream that the man
I used to love is falling, but
I haven’t pushed him.
The television flickers beneath
my eyelids when I wake: blue
static flashes, and laughter
buzzes like flies. Every time
he falls, it jars me just as
I’m jumping after him. I turn
off the tv, then silence—
an awful feeling like cleaning out
mouse traps in the morning.
The standing lamp in my
living room gets long or short—
depending on the sun’s
position. (I’m certain) And,
all day, I’m crouched behind
couches under tables. And,
I’m telling that silly lamp that I’ve
no persistence for keeping up
with the mice on the floor, or their
shadows. (I’m lying.) I’m trying to pick
them all up and throw them away
without gagging. I tell him I
ingest seventy-eight of someone else’s
truths and ninety fluid ounces
of Coke in a day. That my dad says
the government put something in it,
to fatten us up, our apple-mouths.
As I drop another shadow-mouse
in the trash, I tell the lamp
it’s no matter:
Though, when people
tell stories, I blink at the wall.
I heard love songs once,
guitar strings in my ribs. Until,
I listened from outside
and heard a joke. I turned off
the music and saw a spectacle—my face,
in the mirror, all quivering—Picasso.
(That look has since settled). When
I clean out the mouse traps,
I tell the lamp. Or I used to—until
I felt like he wasn’t
listening anymore, and
I turned him off. But I always
turn everything off.
heartstump.com 