Poetry

              Sobriety: Day 146

It was supposed to happen by now.
The dopamine fields strained to collapse
were supposed to flare and blossom to life,
if only briefly, like a wildflower bloom in
Death Valley after the rarest of rainfall.
Not a sustainable harvest, but a promise
of something worthwhile. The clouds are
gunmetal gray and the field crunches under
foot but if I just keep walking the
moisture regime may eventually change.
Topography may be more forgiving. 
The coins in my pocket more lustrous.
The people I meet will still care about coins
and none will remember the things I’ve done.

The room is yours, like the house, like the sun, like 
the man you want me to call Papa.

There are hands. His. Yours. Hands that push and sting and 
choke my body. My body, also yours.

There’s a mouth. I flinch when it calls my name. Everything is so ugly 
in the mouth, especially me.

It’s all for your own good, you say with kindness; 
your kindness also a mouth.

There’s a window. It lets nothing out, not even air.
In the room in my dreams, I sit by the window and sing to the moon.

Behind me, the old fan cricks and cracks and groans like an ailing ghost. 
I sing and sing, louder and louder, so I never look at it too long.

“Poetry is a survival.”  --Paul Valéry

“Poetry is a pipe.”  -- Paul Éluard and André Breton

“Ceci n’est pas une pipe.”  -- René Magritte


Poetry is a pipe
and not a pipe
Poetry is music
or perhaps a polar bear

This is not a poem about a polar bear
It is a poem about a poem
and the bear too is a poem
a poem written by a bear
                 about a bear
a bear by and about a bear

the bear, a god, self-fertilizing
the bear, a bear, self-poetizing

Poetry is not a pipe
until it becomes a pipe
filled with stilted words
filled with lilting music
filled with walrus-tusk tobacco

the bear, a poem, self-ursinizing
the bear, Narcissus, self-mesmerizing
the bear, a pipe, self-smoking

The bear is a pipe
and not a pipe
The bear is opium 
The bear is music

the bear, a rhyme, self-aestheticizing
the bear, a drug, self-anesthetizing

The poem is a bear
and not a bear

The poem is a pipe
and the smoke, a forest fire
a poem to burn down the world
The poem is a bear
wearing a ranger hat 
who threatens to let you do it

the world, a pipe, self-playing
the world, a fire, self-immolating
the bear, a poem, self-saying
the bear, music, self-syncopating
the bear
self-conscious
	self-prophesying	
	self-engendered
	self-contained 
	self-referential
the bear rhymes itself with perfect rhythm
the bear rhymes itself with bear 
 

A pile of dirt dressed up in a mountain’s clothing 
A working man’s pile of rocks
but a ball and chain for the drowning man
a bucket of cement spilled across flowering dirt
but the girl is known for crying wolf 
so a mountain has become a molehill

while the dogs come at the blow of whistle
tearing and biting at scraps of meat 
slavering mouths that consume
the yellow pages of journalist notes
as a foremen brings the hammer down 

the coal burns hotter than any other fuel 
but oil is expensive these days 
worth more than the average dollar 
now that’s a molehill mountain 
dressed in expensive leather for the fire 

a working man’s pile of coal
the color of lungs is worth 
the switch from red to black
more money for the non-worker 
whose check balances with zeros lined in gold
this mountains nothing more than a molehill
pick yourself up by your bootstraps
 
 

I’m calling for fries
over the counter full
of fried food and grease
while the chefs ignore me.
Someone taps me twice
on the shoulder as tears salt 
my lips. “What?” I snap, 
searching for a coworker’s face. 
The old woman from my table 
takes a step back. “Excuse me?” 
she says, her wrinkles contorting. 
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I thought 
you were my coworker” I try
to explain. “The women’s restroom
is out of toilet paper.” She walks 
off to clear her plate. I let one more
drop roll down my cheek as I say 
goodbye to any chance at a tip
and turn back to face the head chef. 
“How hard is it to give me some damn
fries?” I continue yelling. When I clock 
out that night I write in my diary. 
I can’t remember one detail of my night 
that doesn’t erase me.

The ticket stabber is over-
flowing on hour ten of my shift. 
“¡Vamos pendeja, vamos!” Miguel
yells over the counter. I flip off 
the food heater and stick three
ice cubes down my bra, then stack 
table 34’s plates on my left arm. 
“Lex, I need a follow” she runs 
over and grabs the last basket of 
chili cheese tots. An hour later, 
the counter is empty and wiped
clean of grease. I restock sauces in
the walk-in and sit down for the first
time today. I clock out at 10:45, say 
my rounds of “Goodnight” to the last 
standing servers. Pepper spray clutch
in hand, I fumble for my keys in the dim 
parking lot. The silence in the passenger
seat is my favorite part of a double-day.
I pull into the gravel driveway, frowning
at the orange-lit room next to mine. 
I knock twice on the purple door so 
my baby sister knows it’s just me.
“Can you read me a bedtime story?”