M. Russo told things with her eyes.
that thing in the corner
the thing that was me, something loud about it.
She saw it and she couldn't stab it to the wall
like every other thing,
i weren't no fly and i weren't no photograph.
just something so powerful
like a bible balancing on top of a pin needle
everyone's afraid to speak to it.
that was me, i had no friends,
made a few acquaintances
for credibility. M. Russo wondered why
i made no art, why i could not hold up the clay with my arms shakin like a wind blew through them
it's called being hungover
these days i'm sitting in my childhood bedroom
there's an ant infestation
they're coming up between the cracks in the old
hard wood floor
my father pulled up the carpet four years ago.
my feet stick to it, the cold grows up from it
and covers the walls and
goes under my blanket to be with me.
these days i am just a cold animal
between unwashed sheets,
shut my eyes tight
steering myself into the blue overhead, take a left.
there that fat dog under the blanket
shivers, got ants in its hair
long hose titties now.
same brilliant thing as before
but without an audience.
dear god how much longer
until i can climb across the sky like those other guys.