twigs on the dining room table, leaving mother furious on the dining room table: picked clean. Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet. A pile of pits. 18 Adam naming the fruit after the creation of fruit, his tongue tickling the crimson lips of the pomegranate, the tip of his penis licking the cheeks of the peach, quince petals in his hair, his blue arms full of plums, his legs wrapped around watermelons, dandling pumpkins on his fatherly knees, tomatoes heaped around him in red pyramids… peach peach peach peach peach he sighs to kingdom come.
The Man Under the Bed The man under the bed The man who has been there for years waiting The man who waits for my floating bare foot The man who is silent as dustballs riding the darkness The man whose breath is the breathing of small white butterflies The man whose breathing I hear when I pick up the phone The man in the mirror whose breath blackens silver The boneman in closets who rattles the mothballs The man at the end of the end of the line I met him tonight I always meet him He stands in the amber air of a bar When the shrimp curl like beckoning fingers & ride through the air on their toothpick skewers When the ice cracks & I am about to fall through he arranges his face around its hollows he opens his pupilless eyes at me For years he has waited to drag me down & now he tells me he has only waited to take me home We waltz through the street like death & the maiden We float through the wall of the wall of my room If he’s my dream he will fold back into my body His breath writes letters of mist on the glass of my cheeks I wrap myself around him like the darkness I breathe into his mouth & make him real
Walking Through the Upper East Side All over the district, on leather couches & brocade couches, on daybeds & “professional divans,” they are confessing. The air is thick with it, the ears of the analysts must be sticky. Words fill the air above couches & hover there hanging like smog. I imagine impossible Steinberg scrolls, unutterable sounds suspended in inked curlicues while the Braque print & the innocuous Utrillo look on look on look on. My six analysts, for example— the sly Czech who tucked his shoelaces under the tongues of his shoes, the mistress of social work with orange hair, the famous old German who said: “You sink, zerefore you are,” the bouncy American who loved to talk dirty, the bitchy widow of a famous theoretician, & another—or was it two?—I have forgotten— they rise like a Greek chorus in my dreams. They reproach me for my messy life. They do not offer to refund my money & the others—siblings for an hour or so— ghosts whom I brushed in & out of the door. Sometimes the couch was warm from their bodies. Only our coats knew each other, rubbing shoulders in the dark closet.
Here Comes ( a flip through BRIDE’S ) The silver spoons were warbling their absurd musical names when, drawing back her veil (illusion), she stepped into the valentine-shaped bathtub, & slid her perfect bubbles in between the perfect bubbles. Oh brilliantly complex as compound interest, her diamond gleams (Forever) on the edge of a weddingcake-shaped bed. What happens there is merely icing since a snakepit of dismembered douchebag coils (all writhing) awaits her on the tackier back pages. Dearly beloved, let’s hymn her (& Daddy) down the aisle with epithalamia composed for Ovulen ads: “It’s the right of every (married) couple to wait to space to wait” —& antistrophes appended by the Pope. Good Grief—the groom! Has she (or we) entirely forgot? She’ll dream him whole. American type with ushers halfbacks headaches drawbacks backaches & borrowed suit stuffed in a borrowed face (or was it the reverse?) Oh well. Here’s he: part coy pajamas, part mothered underwear & of course an enormous prick full of