He writes to me from a mental hospital
writing’s gotten harder than it used to be
leaves thickening,
stars playing games
with the sticks they throw at me
sticks attached to me--attached to my brain as it spins again
this used to be so easy
but my arms are empty
the branches bare
no, actually thats a lie
because im turning 90 and all i find
is the thorns that thrive within my palms
no wonder i’m hard to shake
and the fruit that bubbles is not of my design
i never meant for this to happen
never meant for you to be born
not in my head, not in my thoughts
not in the west
the home of deadly earthquakes
not in my mouth, not chewing my already bleeding gums
do you heed any of this, i’m yelling--i’m thrashing
it must just be the wind
and i see it
you
and you’ve found me once again
the door frame tastes metallic
but your eyes spit it out
carpet wearing dust like a veil
shielding--protecting
slipping back at the kiss of your footsteps
approaching
intensifying
encroaching my joy
the green of you iris finds mine and melts my dam--your venom
waterfalls stream as the siren hooks my lungs
if safety is an allusion, what have you taught me?
to bury, no, mummify these complexing and harrowing transmissions?
it hurts
because i remember your voice
not through the telephone
or the slow chewing at my earlobes
but the sweet yet slimey sounds of you announcing me your friend
your best friend
the only soul that hadn’t disowned you
i remember our conversations
as we talked about God, and death, and the spirits that whispered to you
and tomatoes, and loneliness and who would sit at our tables
the few, the proud, the emotional, who must be protected at all costs
the ones who’d die, we will die--if not for each other
fingertips roaming down my shoulder blades, rubbing all too fondly
lips spilling you love me
lips pressing against my cheek
lips spewing anger and hatred and pain--at me
into me
into these thoughts and functions I call breathing
walking, talking, thinking, loving, kissing, hugging, panting in and out
why don’t you leave?
can’t you see you haven’t seen
not a inch of my face?
not a glance--not a picture
heard my voice?
read my words?
can’t you see I’m trying!
can’t you see the eraser that sways from left to right
and right to left
and again to right
--this VCR i so badly want to throw in a fire
dissipate from my attention
glued in my hands and i can’t seem to hurl it
i’m weak.
cowardice.
but at least i know i’m alive.
at least i know i write better than you
--breathe better than you
stand with a wider chest...
and all of a sudden,
in a sick twist of things,
you’ve made it easier.