I take each book out
of the bag, slowly make
a stack of them on the
coffee table, become a
person who has the men
tal capacity for enjoyment,
a person who wants to hide
his true self. The urgent
violence that is honesty
calls me out of a long
nap (was I dreaming?),
and then ducks back into
the hut like a cat smashed
between a row of books and
a wall. So as to share who
ever I am now with whoever
I may be awake (asleep?), I
take a red crayon out of the
kitchen drawer, the one with
all of the crayons, walk through
the living room and down the
hall, turning left into the
bathroom, turn on the
shower as hot as it
gets, and write in
red on the glass
shower door,
the outer
one: I’m
so afraid
of losing.
It’s a shame,
this grasping of
my red interior in
such an honest way
(the violence that is
honesty, I mouth a
second time, and
then a third,
testing it
out). I
clutch
my heart,
hoping to
narrowly
escape
the ironic
beauty of
certain vandalisms.
