Crush

  here's the pencil, make it work . . .

  If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window

  is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing

  river water.

  Build me a city and call it Jerusalem. Build me another and call it

  Jerusalem.

  We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not

  what we sought, so do it over, give me another version,

  a different room, another hallway, the kitchen painted over

  and over,

  another bowl of soup.

  The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell.

  Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time.

  Forget the dragon,

  leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness.

  Let's jump ahead to the moment of epiphany,

  in gold light, as the camera pans to where

  the action is,

  lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see

  the blue rings of my eyes as I say

  something ugly.

  I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way,

  and I don't want to be the kind that says the wrong way.

  But it doesn't work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats.

  There were some nice parts, sure,

  all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas

  and the grains of sugar

  on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I'm sorry

  it's such a lousy story.

  Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently

  we have had our difficulties and there are many things

  I want to ask you.

  I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again,

  years later, in the chlorinated pool.

  I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have

  these luxuries.

  I have told you where I'm coming from, so put it together.

  We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . .

  When I say this, it should mean laughter,

  not poison.

  I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes.

  Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.

  Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

  II

  Visible World

  Sunlight pouring across your skin, your shadow

  flat on the wall.

  The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.

  You had not expected this,

  the bedroom gone white, the astronomical light

  pummeling you in a stream of fists.

  You raised your hand to your face as if

  to hide it, the pink fingers gone gold as the light

  streamed straight to the bone,

  as if you were the small room closed in glass

  with every speck of dust illuminated.

  The light is no mystery,

  the mystery is that there is something to keep the light

  from passing through.

  Boot Theory

  A man walks into a bar and says:

  Take my wife–please.

  So you do.

  You take her out into the rain and you fall in love with her

  and she leaves you and you’re desolate.

  You’re on your back in your undershirt, a broken man

  on an ugly bedspread, staring at the water stains

  on the ceiling.

  And you can hear the man in the apartment above you

  taking off his shoes.

  You hear the first boot hit the floor and you’re looking up,

  you’re waiting

  because you thought it would follow, you thought there would be

  some logic, perhaps, something to pull it all together

  but here we are in the weeds again,

  here we are

  in the bowels of the thing: your world doesn’t make sense.

  And then the second boot falls.

  And then a third, a fourth, a fifth.

  A man walks into a bar and says:

  Take my wife–please.

  But you take him instead.

  You take him home, and you make him a cheese sandwich,

  and you try to get his shoes off, but he kicks you

  and he keeps kicking you.

  You swallow a bottle of sleeping pills but they don’t work.

  Boots continue to fall to the floor

  in the apartment above you.

  You go to work the next day pretending nothing happened.

  Your co-workers ask

  if everything’s okay and you tell them

  you’re just tired.

  And you’re trying to smile. And they’re trying to smile.

  A man walks into a bar, you this time, and says:

  Make it a double.

  A man walks into a bar, you this time, and says:

  Walk a mile in my shoes.

  A man walks into a convenience store, still you, saying:

  I only wanted something simple, something generic…

  But the clerk tells you to buy something or get out.

  A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river

  but then he’s still left

  with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away

  but then he’s still left with his hands.

  A Primer for the Small Weird Loves

  1

  The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater

  because he is trying to kill you,

  and you deserve it, you do, and you know this,

  and you are ready to die in this swimming pool

  because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means

  your life is over anyway.

  You’re in the eighth grade. You know these things.

  You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do

  long division,

  and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless

  he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you

  didn’t do,

  because you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.

  2

  A dark-haired man in a rented bungalow is licking the whiskey

  from the back of your wrist.

  He feels nothing,

  keeps a knife in his pocket,

  peels an apple right in front of you

  while you tramp around a mustard-colored room

  in your underwear

  drinking Dutch beer from a green bottle.

  After everything that was going to happen has happened

  you ask only for the cab fare home

  and realize you should have asked for more

  because he couldn't care less, either way.

  3

  The man on top of you is teaching you how to hate, see you

  as a piece of real estate,

  just another fallow field lying underneath him

  like a sacrifice.

  He's turning your back into a table so he doesn't have to

  eat off the floor, so he can get comfortable,

  pressing against you until he fits, until he's made a place for himself

  inside you

  The clock ticks from five to six. Kissing degenerates into biting.

  So you get a kidney punch, a little blood in your urine.

  It isn't over yet, it's just begun.

  4

  Says to himself

  The boy's no good. The boy is just no good.

  but he takes you in his arms and pushes your flesh around

  to see if you could ever be ugly to him.

  You, the now familiar whipping boy, but you're beautiful,

  he can feel the dogs licking his heart.

  Wh
o gets the whip and who gets the hoops of flame?

  He hits you and he hits you and he hits you.

  Desire driving his hands right into your body.

  Hush, my sweet. These tornadoes are for you.

  You wanted to think of yourself as someone who did these kinds of things.

  You wanted to be in love

  and he happened to get in the way.

  5

  The green-eyed boy in the powder-blue t-shirt standing

  next to you in the supermarket recoils as if hit,

  repeatedly, by a lot of men, as if he has a history of it.

  This is not your problem.

  You have your own body to deal with.

  The lamp by the bed is broken.

  You are feeling things he's no longer in touch with.

  And everyone is speaking softly,

  so as not to wake one another.

  The wind knocks the heads of the flowers together.

  Steam rises from every cup at every table at once.

  Things happen all the time, things happen every minute

  that have nothing to do with us.

  6

  So you say you want a deathbed scene, the knowledge that comes

  before knowledge,

  and you want it dirty.

  And no one can ever figure out what you want,

  and you won't tell them,

  and you realize the one person in the world who loves you

  isn't the one you thought it would be,

  and you don't trust him to love you in a way

  you would enjoy.

  And the boy who loves you the wrong way is filthy.

  And the boy who loves you the wrong way keeps weakening.

  You thought if you handed over your body

  he'd do something interesting.

  7

  The stranger says there are no more couches and he will have to

  sleep in your bed. You try to warn him, you tell him

  you will want to get inside him, and ruin him,

  but he doesn't listen.

  You do this, you do. You take the things you love

  and tear them apart

  or you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours.

  So, you kiss him, and he doesn't move, he doesn't

  pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn't moved,

  he's frozen, and you've kissed him, and he'll never

  forgive you, and maybe now he'll leave you alone.

  Unfinished Duet

  At first there were too many branches

  so he cut them and then it was winter.

  He meaning you. Yes. He would look out

  the window and stare at the trees that once

  had too many branches and now seemed

  to have too few. Is that all? No, there were

  other attempts, breakfasts: plates served,

  plates carried away. He doesn't know

  what to do with his hands. He likes the feel

  of the coffeepot. More than the hacksaw?

  Yes, and he likes flipping the chairs,

  watching them fill with people. He likes

  the orange juice and toast of it, and waxed

  floors in any light. He wants to be tender

  and merciful. That sounds overly valorous.

  Sounds like penance. And his hands?

  His hands keep turning into birds and

  flying away from him. Him being you.

  Yes. Do you love yourself? I don't have to

  answer that. It should matter. He has a

  body but it doesn't matter, clean sheets

  on the bed but it doesn't matter. This is

  where he trots out his sadness. Little black

  cloud, little black umbrella. You miss

  the point: the face in the mirror is a little

  traitor, the face in the mirror is a pale

  and naked hostage and no one can tell

  which room he's being held in. He wants

  in, he wants out, he wants the antidote.

  He stands in front of the mirror with a net,

  hoping to catch something. he wants to

  move forward into the afternoon because

  there is no other choice. Everyone in this

  room got here somehow and everyone in

  this room will have to leave. So what's left?

  Sing a song about the room we're in?

  Hammer in the pegs that fix the meaning

  to the landscape? The voice wants to be

  a hand and the hand wants to do something

  useful. What did you really want? Someone

  to pass this with me. You wanted more.

  I want what everyone wants. He raises

  the moon on a crane for effect, cue the violins.

  That's what the violins are for. And yes,

  he raises the moon on a crane and scrubs it

  until it shines. So what does it shine on?

  Nothing. Was there no one else? Left-handed

  truth, right-handed truth, there's no pure

  way to say it. The wind blows and it makes

  a noise. Pain makes a noise. We bang on

  the pipes and it makes a noise. Was there

  no one else? His hands keep turning into

  birds, and his hands keep flying away

  from him. Eventually the birds must land.

  I Had a Dream About You

  All the cows were falling out of the sky and landing in the mud.

  You were drinking sangria and I was throwing oranges at you,

  but it didn’t matter.

  I said my arms are very long and your head’s on fire.

  I said kiss me here and here and here

  and you did.

  Then you wanted pasta,

  so we trampled out into the tomatoes and rolled around to make the sauce.

  You were very beautiful.

  We were in the Safeway parking lot. I couldn’t find my cigarettes.

  You said Hurry up! but I was worried there would be a holdup

  and we would be stuck in a hostage situation, hiding behind

  the frozen meats, with nothing to smoke for hours.

  You said Don’t be silly,

  so I followed you into the store.

  We were thumping the melons when I heard somebody say Nobody move!

  I leaned over and whispered in your ear I told you so.

  There was a show on the television about buried treasure.

  You were trying to convince me that we should buy shovels

  and go out into the yard

  and I was trying to convince you that I was a vampire.

  On the way to the hardware store I kept biting your arm

  and you said if I really was a vampire I would be biting your neck,

  so I started biting your neck

  and you said Cut it out!

  and you bought me an ice cream, and then we saw the UFO.

  These are the dreams we should be having. I shouldn’t have to

  clean them up like this.

  You were lying in the middle of the empty highway.

  The sky was red and the sand was red and you were wearing a brown coat.

  There were flecks of foam in the corners of your mouth.

  The birds were watching you.

  Your eyes were closed and you were listening to the road and I could

  hear your breathing, I could hear your heart beating.

  I carried you to the car and drove you home but you

  weren’t making any sense

  I took a shower and tried to catch my breath.

  You were lying on top of the bedspread

  in boxer shorts, watching cartoons and laughing but not making any sound.

  Your skin looked blue in the television light.

  Your teeth looked yellow.

  Still wet, I lay down next to you. Your arms, your legs, your naked chest,

 
your ribs delineated like a junkyard dogs.

  There’s nowhere to go, I thought. There’s nowhere to go.

  You were sitting in a bathtub at the hospital and you were crying.

  You said it hurt.

  I mean the buildings that were not the hospital.

  I shouldn’t have mentioned the hospital.

  I don’t think I can take this much longer.

  In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap.

  Let’s say you’re driving down the road with your eyes closed

  but my eyes are also closed.

  You’re by the side of the road.

  You’re by the side of the road and you’re doing all the talking

  while I stare at my shoes.

  They’re nice shoes, brown and comfortable, and I like your voice.

  In the dream I don’t tell anyone, I’m afraid to wake you up.

  In these dreams it’s always you:

  the boy in the sweatshirt,

  the boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me

  from jumping off the bridge.

  Oh, the things we invent when we are scared

  and want to be rescued.

  Your jeep. Your teeth. The coffee that you bought me.

  The sandwich cut in half on the plate.

  I woke up and ate ice cream in the dark,

  hunched over on the wooden chair in the kitchen,

  listening to the rain.

  I borrowed your shoes and didn’t put them away.

  You were crying and eating rice.

  The surface of the water was still and bright.

  Your feet were burning so I put my hands on them, but my hands

  were burning too.

  You had a bottle of pills but I wouldn’t let you swallow them.

  You said Will you love me even more when Im dead?

  And I said No, and I threw the pills on the sand.

  Look at them, you said. They look like emeralds.

  I put you in the cage with the ocelots. I was trying to fatten you up

  with sausage and bacon.

  Somehow you escaped and climbed up the branches of a pear tree.

  I chopped it down but there was no one in it.

  I went to the riverbed to wait for you to show up.

  You didn't show up.

  I kept waiting.

  Straw House, Straw Dog

  1

  I watched TV. I had a Coke at the bar. I had four dreams in a row

  where you were burned, about to burn, or still on fire.

  I watched TV. I had a Coke at the bar. I had four Cokes,

  four dreams in a row.

  Here you are in the straw house, feeding the straw dog. Here you are

  in the wrong house, feeding the wrong dog. I had a Coke with ice.

  I had four dreams on TV. You have a cold cold smile.

  You were burned, you were about to burn, you're still on fire.