Waking Up in a Concrete Building
Sat in rows dressed for summer, we convene to talk about winter and death. There are four screens in the room.
one in front
left right
and behind
that/reflect my face and body. I feel like an angry dog, wishing, anxious, snarling, wanting to claw at the animal. In the tomb of my ancestors, carefully collecting pieces of cream porous bone to dash out my brains, asleep and awake and dreaming—a staircase, with its finality!— The spirits that track scum within my veins (The professor says that Loneliness creates Weight) are restless and full of impure intention. Relieve me of dogs, winters, ghosts. Let me catch myself upon the concrete wall and maybe I could grasp what it is I’m supposed to be thinking about. Anchor me against the day, forlorn with torn, torn nails. It were
as if my plastic chair was wood
and the ground before me scattered with
locks of a girl’s hair, every few seconds
I am executed. My brains fried
beneath the metal dome, cold
and shining like the hand of God.
Twitching, extending outward, I
release
foam from my mouth
wishing to feed someone’s children
baby, baby birds. My executioner
asks again if I had something to say,
and always, I will say
continue.
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