Ulcer

How does a gut

know the difference

Between:  a dread, or a disquiet, an unease—

it follows me: from the breakfasttableto

mydressertomycartomyjobtomylunch

tothesuppertabletothelaundrytomybed

tomydreamtomysoul—is there such a thing?

And:  an expectation, or a calm, untroubled—

it follows me: from the breakfasttableto

mydressertomycartomyjobtomylunch

tothesuppertabletothelaundrytomybed

tomydreamtomysoul—is there such a thing?

That comet explodes at the same bizarre

rate with the same intensity and

meanders and mazes itself through

the width of my capillaries

and the chutes of my veins

bleeding itself out of my

yielding pores.

That kind of rage and celebration

are troublesome dance partners

dancing a crooked two-step

with no music.

Untitled

There is a sound:

It reminds me of

brown paper towels from

the men’s room being

coerced into drying dirty hands,

And walking on bleached

cornhusks through a maze

at a pumpkin patch louder

than an exhausted hay ride,

And an apology note crumpled

by a hand that wants to write what

it wants not what

should be written;

I imagine the dark space of

the paper towel rounded sharp,

and the shadow of the husks

a damp dark,

and the words an emery board on

too short a nail whisper just past

the note.

All of those crevices, all

of those slight and grand chasms.

There’s a kind of finality to that sound:

of drying hands,

of walking on dead things,

of the unrealized stab of a word.

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When I feel like a dried chicken bone

ready to crack and splinter, or

brittle sandpaper that’s been wetted

and dried, wetted and dried, or

a throat that’s parched and gagging,

I imagine it all like baking topsoil.

I want to get into my car and

drive, drive, drive:

There’s something to be said for being honest

with someone else. But doesn’t it say more

when I’m honest with me?

If my car bent itself into or around or

through or behind, into shards of

cartilage and marrow, burgundy and

full of rot,

it would not be so bad, I suppose.