Confession
I had my faults.
I had my so-called desires.
I remained open to temptation.
I argued with my colleagues.
I did not reach 100 percent
in my assignments. But I was no pry
pole, I was subsidiary. I was aspiring
to cog. I wanted to be a gullible
sheep or a rowdy-dowdy shepherdess
or a shamefaced sheepdog.
When I learned what I had to be,
I sat down on my luggage set
and wept. Then I unpacked. I decorated.
I raised the roof. I flew my kite.
I removed all the skulls and thieves.
I told my wise leaders where to sponge.
I was less than resistant. I was more than bold.
I was beyond naked. I was technicolor.
I was a brilliant butcher, an innovative
streetwalker, a saucy sales manager.
I knew a good stogy, a fine lace teddy.
I lived for love. I erred accordingly.
I assumed the world condoned my stunts.
It's clearer today. I was misunderstood;
I was in-the-know everyone else wanted
out of. Today there are no traces
of erasures, and no qualms, no real
wrongs. I made judgements for the best
and by the standards of the time.
Now that it's over I must beg
for attention. I have been robbed
of the limelight that comes with
responsibility. I can only imagine
how hard it must be for you
to believe me, I mean, to hold
blame. I mean, to be you.
Lunchtime in the Kingdom of the Subjunctive
A spoon propels itself out of its soup
as a bone sprung free of skin
or a tuning fork
trembling into the background,
then arcing and returning
as a boomerang.
Meanwhile, the glass of milk glides up and out
of your hand, quietly streaking a gloss
of stars through your suddenly glowing hair.
Meanwhile, toast combusts in a golden dust.
Butter drops from clouds that release an ochre rain.
You grow misty-eyed, nostalgic.
This feeling is alleviated by a sense of dread
and instability as the tabletop turns metallic,
tips and revolves as a chain-saw blade
slicing the floor into windows
you slowly and gracefully crash through.
Splintered glass sequins your skin.
Your hands reaching for the doorknob
sharpen to cones. The door soars.
Your legs run too fast, lose their feet
to curls of smoke drifting up the stairs.
You spend hours, or possibly years, floating around like this—
light-headed, fuzzy-brained,
cotton-mouthed. You have fallen in love
with the way light refracts in impossible ways.
Later darkness barges in horizontally,
It is night without shadows
and everything is way too shallow.
You are too close to the picture
to see if you're included.
You fall headfirst down the drain
sucking the bright out of colors.
You become somber, colder, a kind of high-quality vinyl,
and, in some places, an old damp velvet.
Meanwhile your head continues to plummet,
has become a potholed highway
splitting into stalks, going to seed
as you talk yourself into the distance.
You are telling yourself: Do not be afraid.
You are begging: God help me.
You are whining: If only
If only I had some kind of anchor
in here. If only I could disappear.
You know you should be ashamed.
This is the kind of compulsive behavior
you are always being criticized for.
It's that soup bowl,
and singing, sparkling like a god and spitting
its empty refrain in the faces of all your best selves:
If only ______, then ______.
If only ______, then ______.
