Where Do I Sign?
I
my visions— i miss them.
II
the summer i was 18,
i thought i could be a poet.
sleep till noon,
at night, at midnight,
in Gage Park,
a divine place of youth.
III
July, the cicadas are out,
the band shell is painted soft green,
come after the kids leave and write,
that summer i discovered alliteration
“…slowly walking, sewing maple seeds,
maybe her name was Mabel,
maybe i should have asked her…”
a poem about a red-head on the Burlington bus.
“…but all i could say was
‘Pure. Pure. Pure.’
the innocence in her,
the stupid thing in me…”
she got off the bus.
women always seem to know,
when to cum,
and when to go.
all great songs are written about women.
all great poems are written about death.
so are the bad ones.
especially the bad ones.
IV
a swastika on the wall,
i wrote Hope Boulevard in response, gaudy in midsummer ink,
poems and hate immortalized,
covered over in September— sicky white paint.
the light buzzes, steady— you wouldn’t believe,
in heaven’s waiting room, i am fluorescent,
ghostly,
in soft green light.
afterward i would sit on the swing,
know the feeling of childhood striving;
wrap the chain around the pole, win a prize?
i would sit quietly and know.
V
i will address no one,
as i remember,
the smell of summer air,
i vomit images; a-sundry and platonic.
do you like it well? am i palatable enough?
will you address the problem of other minds?
ugh.
an infinite regress.
VI
on the way home,
and in my dreams,
across main st.,
i swallowed my heart.
in the 2am streetlight,
a ghost on the pavement,
my own,
i would recognize.
he looks down the st.,
so young, i’m lost to see,
i look to his gaze, back;
gone. Raskolnikov.
VII
my visions— i miss them.
i want them back.
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