OLD NO-EYES
A ghost is leaving me
voicemails: Come rest
with me and Hand to god
I’ll lay waste to your
happiness. There’s no
concept here, no reward
for the diligent. There’s
bloodlust and hate. Look,
I can divide this
into manageable minutes,
voicemail-sized moments.
I can get irresponsible
with this technology. Another
way to say it is that doing
things is a matter of multiplication.
Twice a day every day
is an equation no one
wants to solve because
the solution is incredible
violence. You ask me when
you get to see me drunk
and the answer is obvious:
Look up. I brought your
favorite sandwich.
A lot of pepperoni and no
explanation. You need
to take my phone and probably
my calculator. The pages of your book
have a doubling effect. Check
my math for me: two ghosts
with one eye become one ghost
with no eyes. He clawed them out
in a successful attempt to change.
He keeps all your secrets
in a jar. We call him
Old No-Eyes. We were never
very imaginative.
*
*
THE SUN IS SHINING
Sometimes I feel like a genius.
I do all the regular genius
things: I eat off the ground, I roll
in the dirt. My glasses are face down
on the dashboard when someone
flips them, a life lesson. The sun
is shining as hard as it can. At any
given time, the sun is trying
its best. I am not going
to tell you to do the same. I don’t
care. Together we are the god
of torment. I know you feel
all-powerful—I do too. I am tired
of pretending I’m not the king.
I am the king of wine. I am
the king of your sweat. When I see
the seagulls hovering so close
to the ferry I want to punch them
out of the sky.
*
*
LURKER I LIKE YOUR SWEATER
Half of you is enough,
your sweater or your hand
tilted toward your drinking
hand. You hang electrically,
agreeing with me on everything
important. We agree that there
are probably many surprising
creatures in Kansas, but you are
thinking undocumented insects and I
am thinking a great desire dragon.
I’m trying to make sure all
the thorns outside your window
stay there. I’m looking for a world
of fixed prices. No-name flowers,
the cinnamon toast city, the widemouthed
lord of extinction who breathes into
your throat and grants every wish left there.
My eyes are dead hands clutching
at your hair and feathers. Even when
I’m dead, there is nowhere you won’t be.
ILK journal 