When I watch my hand writing I say, “Oh, tiny hand. You vomit so often. You open that
mouth you keep in that pen and then you lose your guts.”
When I watch it scribbling, foaming at the mouth all rabid and unbridled, I say, “Fucking
thank god for you. I’m so glad you give me back all the nutrients I put into you. It’s like
we feed each other.”
Something has run away
It’s my train
The one I ride in
So my whiskey is mixed with tears
Maybe my train has sped off with the fork and spoon
But it’s gone missing and it’s WANTED
Into my asparagus, I cried a new vinegar
No one knows this salad
Only I make it
At the world’s smallest table
Like a lunch vault
There is no room for more
Failure is full
It’s so clever how they set up these beds
With little bars on the sides
A man arrives and puts it together like he’s done it 10 trillion terrible times
He’s young and probably working for his family
Drives all day to set up and take down the world’s saddest furniture
At work I plant hemlock trees in the swamp
My pencil rolls off the desk, lodges in the carpet and grows lead branches
Staples slip through cracks in the drawers
Then there are little metal lily pads
Pens develop spiny leaves and turn the water dark
I flick erasers off the sides of my desk so there are white magnolias
My shoe splashes under my chair
My elbow nudges a stack of post-its
They scatter into a hundred hot yellow paper ducks
Every day I take a canoe and the birds help me row
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