Thursday, October 14, 2010

noises

nothing but the clock ticking
i think, forgetting
how i tried to understand my upstairs
neighbor's fight
just ten minutes before.
maybe it was just a movie,
or an old friend you
talk to as if they were the scum
on your shoe.
it is the witching hour
here, at the tip of park slope,
although now they call it
greenwood heights
after the cemetery one
block away. the cemetery
with the bodies of centuries past.
in california, there are no
bodies of centuries past.
just michael jackson and
marilyn monroe
and people rich
east coasters call
"new money."
she blurts out at dinner
something to do about
rich people and how
"they can't handle it"
when they lose all their money.
and I, trying to keep from screaming,
offer an ironic anecdote
which i immediately regret.
this will never be table conversation and
no one will ever understand, nor
appreciate the irony inherent in all
fucking tragedies.
nor will they learn that those rich people
can handle something
just fine.
everywhere i go
there is a sparrow.
sparrows in my feet,
sparrows in my chest,
sparrows in my head.
she will not let me go and so
at night i dream
about cancer in my body.
"you won't always feel this way,"
she tells me.
"you won't always feel this way."

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