I don't believe in adding
round shapes of varying
diameter I don't believe
in groupings of similar
objects for aesthetic
pleasure I don't believe
in collection for sake of
comfort or to appease
some wealthy donor
I don't believe in some
mass of tangled string
that defines the universe
I don't believe in museum
display signs that ask
you to not touch I don't
believe in the science of
star symbols I don't believe
in your grasp as bait or
as appeasement or as a
subtle reminder that I am
alive I don't believe in
my eyes in the mirror as
you exit the room, quietly

I wish to be wealthy in time
to hoard it in boxes and jars
that are blue and caked in
fine powder, to keep seconds
in a piggy bank that is cracked
open every year on my birthday,
when I am excited to learn that
a year of saving yielded more
than just one or two minutes.

I wish to surf my history
to return to the moments when
it was possible to ride my
bicycle across town in 15 minutes,
when I would laugh at serious
notions and pass off my days
shielded from the rain in a
twisted building with wooden
chairs and faded couches.

I wish to lay down across days
stretching my arms up across
the calendar, reclaiming the
moments I spent staring at the
wall, falling into songs sung
just for me, wondering if I would
ever make it out alive, wondering
if the purple would stain the sheets.

I wish to return to a particular
hour that yielded the sharpest
spike in self-discovery, when I
laid with you and listened to
those songs I had heard over and
over so many times and watched
before my eyes them take on
new meaning, watched them
change the way it looked outside
my window and where my
reflection used to seem dull and
glassy I saw a glow reminiscent
of candle wax and silver beads
and box stools.

It is important to establish
early comfort, though pre-dawn
is the best time for experiments
on flowing swooping arm
gesticulations, on shades
of lips and knuckles scuffed
from carelessness and bicycles.

Where even did sleep
or when, those words
of inquiry are tight and
relaxed, small boxes
of language with nouns
punching holes for air
buried beneath verbs.

"It is OKAY to be who you are
when you are and where you
might go and how you might
get there. You can hold what
you will and teach what you
wish but you still are tethered
like the yellow rubber ball,
beat to death by adolescents."

Long winds are coming through
the building, they blow via taps
left on, they spew hot air.

Circle games, let's just move in
and stack the cardboard tubes
in an intelligent fashion,
let's pull it together for
breaking ice and watering down.

Power up and out of the office
and into the wires of emergency
rock, the tables, the walls, the
bookcases taut and tensionless
and keeping secrets of the room,
imprisoned by gravity and friction.

Unfit to wait forever I am
impatient I am noticing fluorescent
light flicker while you waffle and
waver I am sitting on the front steps
pushing the doorbell on threes and fours
if we don't leave now we'll miss the bus
come on hurry up now it's time

Yell through sore throat I hurt heard you
I have done and undone the buckle
on this bag I am waiting are you going
to strangle me are you going to straggle
will we miss this flight while you focus
neatly on the folds of your skin
come on hurry up now it's time

Restless you are restless I can hear
your foot tapping on the hard wood
and fingers on the tile I can see
where you are wanting to go why won't you
talk to me while I lay silent on the carpet
come on hurry up now it's time

I should go I should just get up and
go and let you linger and concerning
the electrical bill well once you fix
that bulb we can talk but right now
I need out of here I need to know
if you're going to follow me down

come on hurry up now it's time

Stand in dusty pew and listen
through cracked stained glass, hear
bellows of bike corpse peddlers
under glassy sky with loud sirens
that pierce the mindful silence
of a downtown service riddled with
seemingly thoughtful reflection.

Nose and eyes, I am dripping
from my face I am grabbing
at my stomach to keep it from
screaming out, to keep it from
disrupting city noise and
undiscussed knee touching and
squinted side glances.

In some corner in some alley somewhere
a young boy cowers, covered in dirt
and takes a long swig from a bottle of cheap rye.

The most sinister sounds exist in your head
or they are in the walls too, scratching and
clawing and gnashing gnarled teeth to
intimidate, initiate conversation. I, like the
elephant man, can't get people to look at me.

Crawling in the walls, crawling in the walls.

Body noises, bodies making noise all on their
own, no contact necessary, no touches, none
small swift sweet brush of fingertips on freshly
shaved legs, these noises follow marbles down
tubes of recent cell growth and death and the
burnt cilia from one or two nights up too late.

Who wouldn't want the danger? Who wouldn't
be seduced by the threat of extinction, the on
and on challenges of basic survival? I don't know
that I want to know the people who would lie
down during the apocalypse to be taken up to
heaven or who hang on to thoughts of angels
in clouds out of fear. Stop apologizing. Just stop.

Move slow through tall grass on hands and knees.

With one light slow breath I can pass pathogens
to unsuspecting commuters on the 7:05 train
who will pass by hundreds of people in their day,
breathing heavy from flights of stairs and some
pollution in the air and some emotional turmoil
that will likely resolve itself right before collapse.

Understanding imminent destruction has a
strange power reminiscent of floodlights
coating a thousand heavy construction sites
covered in some damp **** ***** snow.