Dusk saws the light off the mountain
with a smelly skunk. Don’t need any
glasses (for eyes or for water). The
earth rings damp with importance
like a monster sewn into the cover
of a chair that turns out to be a grey
rose. The stuff of the gods. The
stuff of deep-tissue massages.
It crawls into a little nook atop the
plywood cabinet. I had just watched
a video of two guys playing with an
anteater. They didn’t look particularly
respectful but they played respectfully.
It’s a world of mud out the door. An
insect somehow manages. Squeezes
into an empty drawer.
Bugs love sex. I imagine prison
lonely. This is harsh, awkward,
inadvertent, sweet? Like the all-
knowing mirror centered over the
cabinet which tilts a little after a
pre-dawn temblor. I sleep right
through it with a hard-on, some
dream of chasing vague laughter
and slow-motion lingerie in
mesmerizing color.
This vivid fantasy dissipates
and I awaken to the beetle
clawing sluggishly into its
plywood coffin. A few books
and a journal have fallen to the
floor, sharp light from the window,
He says he won’t go to Venice...
it’s too romantic...it’ll make
him think of me and cry....
