There Is a Candle On the Table

It has been sitting there longer than I have lived. It is drooping because it once was lit to light the way to the bathroom, back before you or I were born, back when candles lit people's way at night. It must be this old, for it it is so droopy and dusty. I have only just come across this relic. Good thing you are with me! I would be frightened if you weren't, for it is dark. Good thing I have this lighter! Take it and light the candle. I am far too much of a coward to light it myself. Good! The candle is lit! And now I can see the way to the bathroom! Now blow on the flame and make it flicker in familiar ways. How Comforting! Pour the flames into my hands! Let us lap the flames out of my hands! How Wonderful! Let us paint each other into the walls with the flames! I can see! I can really see! And now the house is on fire! How Fun! But look at how the candle droops now! It is crying onto the floor. It wishes it was a candle that goes on a birthday cake. Birthdays are always the best! it says. And this is the most startling of all, for at this moment, the candle goes out and we are once again wandering these dark halls, wondering where the bathroom is.

Thanksgiving

The most important thing
to remember is that at the bottom
of every mind lies a few dead
canaries. Unearthing them is no
easy task, I can assure you.
It is a bit like carving your initials
into the breast of a turkey with
just your finger. The deeper
you go, the more the turkey
quivers, until at last your finger
grazes the heart. Now, pluck
it out and watch how happily
it beats in your hand, the blood
dripping ever so softly onto the
white carpet at your parents
house, before you pop it into
your mouth and swallow it whole.

Daydream

Tomorrow, I will pack my life
into a suitcase and head
over to my landlord's

to pay off all my debts.
I will leave a note
for my room-mates-

I broke the coffee table.
There is chicken in the freezer.
Don't wait up.

I will cut out my tongue
and leave it on the counter.
I will forget my name

and never again will I
be scared to tell you
how it really feels.

And later, I will tear off
my clothes in the middle
of Arizona and leap into the sun.

It is here that you will find
me, shaking softly, smoke
still drifting out of my eyes.

This Is A Long Drive For Someone With Nothing To Think About

I.

In that moment
of failure, you know
your cat will never walk
again. You might glance
your reflection in a window
and wonder, if only aloud,
how mysterious it is that
your shoes still fit.

And the next morning, the car
won't start - it never does.
You will remember that
at one point, the universe
didn't exist, you were
in your mother's womb
and nothing existed!

Every thought you
ever had about cleaning
vanishes! Your garden
is overgrown but
you don't care! And
your grandpa that died
last winter? What a saint!

II.

You chew your fingernails
clean off in a fit of ecstasy.
Your fingers are sausages.
Eat them right down
to the knuckles. Now cut
open your stomach. Watch
your fingers squirm like maggots
in the light. Crawl in there
and go to sleep. You are
the size of a thumb now,
something you have always
wanted. Tomorrow, there
will be hot breakfast, but for now,
there is nothing.

*Title from Modest Mouse

Death At the Library

I watched a man die as I was sitting
at a computer at the public
library. The paramedics
never rose their voices,
the librarians never uttered
a shush, and I never finished
writing that paper.
I have never felt so alone.
It was the white sheet draped over
the body, it was the endless distance
between the body and the ceiling, it was
the homeless man
who was still asleep in the corner,
a book propped up between his thumb and
forefinger, head tilted to the side, half
drooling on his coat. I watched
a man die, something paramedics
understand well, about as well as they
understand the need
for silence, about as well
as God's understanding of the universe,
this silent expanse of stars
that die without warning, a blink, a flash,
a darkness that leaves Him staring in disbelief,
His fingers trembling,
not quite a saint Himself, unable
to think of the word for
humanity, which is not unlike the way
I felt as I watched a man die a second time.
This is years later. My buddy from the army is home
for two weeks. It is the summer before
my eighteenth birthday and he is teaching
me how to smoke cigars. He
pulls out his laptop and starts playing a video.
This is a helicopter covering my platoon he says.
The video is grainy. Crosshairs dance
across the screen before settling on a man.
That's the enemy he says. The screen
shakes and two seconds later, the man is replaced
by a cloud of dust, the red glow
already fading from his body,
gooseflesh climbing
up and down my body, and me, absolutely stricken
with a loss of appetite, of breath,
of the daylight on that sunday afternoon and
the green, green grass.

I Thought I Saw You Outside Fourth Coast

Which reminds me,
I want to run down the hall

completely naked, my face painted
like a tiger or a mime
who just threw up all over himself,
pieces of that morning's
newspaper sagging out of the corner

of my eye like a tear, which
is not to say that I have been crying,

although sometimes I do pretend
that I have been weeping,
usually in a corner or a crowded
subway car, nostrils flaring
like the sun, knuckles white from

prayer done right,
eyes closed and head bowed

into some stranger's lap, who
just happens to be
talking loudly on her cellphone to you,
you who have been
dead for months, but sometimes

I forget just how many
people I have actually met, how

many times I have successfully choked on
cheap whiskey, how
many hours I have spent sleeping
in strange houses,
but one thing that I will never forget

is my brother's birthday
last year, the day you were found

hanging from a tree branch, a rope
wound around your neck,
raindrops sliding softly down your face,
leaving only a note
on the seat of your car that read

I love you all

In a Tunnel Underneath West Michigan Avenue

I swear God spoke, his voice
sputtering down from a manhole
cover, disguised as a car missing

a muffler. I could feel
the weight of the concrete
and cars bearing down on the tips

of my hair. And when I
reached to end of the tunnel,
the wall beside me opened

like a wound and I crawled
in, unaware of muddy waters
that ate at my ankles and

the quiet recitation of prayers
above. And in my final moments,
I simply clung to myself and began
singing It Is Well With My Soul.