forecast in chrome and plastic. tyrants breathing alloy of slavery,
planet hunger,
versions of jackie o. sherry, sherry baby, won't you come out
tonight? and the stars
whisper like old blood at the edges of the body of night. she
stood with one hand on
the phone for four hours, poised as though only a few seconds
had passed. i watched
her through the crack between the shade
and the sill. she waited for other
important women. come, come, come out tonight. the world suffers
for her: the clock
dribbling saliva. she has eaten chicken pie and bubblegum. for
a month the luftwaffe
lived on raisins. same with the french, after the war. jackie o received
fresh oranges
from john kennedy. silly girl. she cannot put down the
telephone receiver. she is
waiting to receive my body of work. she wants to take it in
her ear. a mottled flush
builds under her cheeks. she eats xmas candy while she
waits. the telephone rings
and rings. i am not at home. i am with jackie
o. we are eating oranges from the
president. we are alone on the roof of a park avenue penthouse.
picture of marilyn
monroe in my back pocket molded by heat and sweat to the shape
of my buttocks. you
are gripping the phone smiling, eating candy, crying. i am with
important women, now.
i am secretly an important man. hang up the phone. i can't dance with
you anymore. go
to your freezer and get a popsicle. go to your tv. turn
on your tv. you will see me
and jackie o. she will be taking it in the ear, my body of work.
in the planetarium. you
will receive a forecast. i will always be more important than
you. you will never be
important enough. you will never be on the whip-hand end of
slavery, never be the
one to wield hunger against humanity. heaven will never
be an extension of your
body. your body will always belong to someone else. the picture
of marilyn monroe
flutters across the roof, steaming, shaped like
me. shaped like my ass. the sky is
filled with oranges during the war. we eat them. the president
is alone in a room. he
is unimportant. as we eat his oranges the sky grows blacker.
the moon ripens and
turns red. it rots and is swallowed by the darkness. you are
still by the phone. it is
ringing and ringing, dead. sherry, sherry baby,
won't you come out tonight? it is
completely dark. the earth freezes. you put down the receiver
and go to the window.
come, come, come out tonight.
IN THE END I WILL FORGET
In the end I will forget
the springs in the carseats
Grandpa on the lawn
dust exploding in the sun
television in fifty-seven
In the end
I will not remember this.
For me
the moon over the water
will fade into blackness
and only the softening
voices of events
will soak through my night
like rain
through a brown felt hat.
In the end
it will all be
a wet sponge on my skull,
my hair falling down
in pieces.
A machine will come along
and rake up
all the whimpers and shouts
that right now
inhabit my memory,
all the laughing and coughing
the weeds biting through
the concrete floor.
In the end I will forget you.
I'm sorry
to have to say that.
But, I will forget myself,
too,
so don't feel bad.
We will both slip
no longer real
from the libertine grasp
of memory. You who
I love
I am still so afraid
of losing you
afraid of losing
myself,
neither of us
need to worry. Fear holds
my memory erect. You will
always be there
like the stroke of a needle
in the bone. In the end
I will forget
what others
will read
on the yellow pages
of my skeleton. In the end
there will be no need
for me to remember.
THE MAN UPSTAIRS
The man upstairs
is playing cards, again;
shuffling the cards
on the carpet.
He is alone
drinking grapefruit juice
playing solitaire
masturbating,
once or twice
a day.
"You are my only friend,"
he said to me
while shaving.
"Oh, that's not true."
"Maybe not,"
he said.
But, it probably
is true.
This hand
is not going too well:
he pounds on the floor
and says,
"What a shit layout."
I can hear
everything he says
up there,
almost everything
he does
I can hear.
When he dies,
I will not hear that:
I will hear nothing.
He picks up the cards
off the carpet
and re-shuffles,
then he goes
to the refrigerator
for more juice.
Click
bang,
like a gun: that's
the refrigerator door.
Open it
pour the juice
close it.
He sits on the carpet
and deals the cards.
He drinks the juice
and studies the layout.
I know the man's habits,
I know how he thinks.
I've been listening to him
go about his daily business
for a long time-
longer
than he realizes.
He has been alone up there
forever, it seems
shuffling the cards
drinking the juice
tickling his own balls.
He pretends to talk to people
but makes no contact.
His eyes are covered
by milky cataracts.
He talks
right through people's faces
and does not stop
until he's
out of breath.
"A big zero," he says,
apparently
studying the cards.
"A big zero," and
picks them up
off the carpet
without playing.
Now,
he's drinking the juice.
He undoes his pants-
the buckle
the snap
the zipper-
and plays with his dick,
but nothing happens.
He is getting older.
He zips, snaps, buckles
his pants,
and goes on
drinking the juice.
I notice
that there is no music
in his life-
no radio,
nothing.
He does not drink
and he hardly eats
anything.
I see him in the cafe
fighting
with a bowl of soup.
A few spoonfuls,
he pays
and leaves: that's
dinner.
My life
is more interesting
than his:
I can hear him,
but he can't
hear me.
Other than that,
I suppose
there isn't much
difference.
I sit on the carpet
and shuffle the cards,
open and close
the refrigerator
play with myself
eat dinner
at the cafe.
He lives on the top floor-
there's nothing for him
but bird's feet
and rain.
He is a bare skull;
I am somewhere
inside the body.
Under me
there is a vacancy;
there is no-one
down there
listening.
(muderised) MURDERED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANCE
I was lonely
my hands holding each other
tight. You think
it is never like that
for me,
but it is.
A scorched flower rested
on my forehead,
a bottle of pills rattled
as I walked from one end
of the dance floor
to the other.
You could tell I was sick;
no one wanted
to dance with me,
that night.
But, how long was the night?
And, every dance
went on and on
painfully. Yes,
your happiness was like
a good whipping.
I laid down in a room
full of coats and hats
and umbrellas and took it.
Then, I tore off my head
and stuffed pills in its mouth.
I threw the head
in the waste basket
and walked down the hall
to the mens room.
Even though I didn't have a head,
I was still a man.
Maybe people screamed
and ran into each other
trying to get away from me.
I couldn't see or hear
anything. Blood ran
down my shirt.
Blood, or spit, or sweat.
The dance was meaningless. The head,
having taken its pills,
was all well. The rest
was riddled with disease,
but stumbled on, thoughtlessly.
Doubtless,
you were in someone's arms.
Maybe, you hadn't even heard
about the headless man
poking at the doors
in the hall.
He was dressed for love.
I was dressed for love.
It is the same as murder
when I have to dress for it.
My balls crushed
against the edge of a table.
A bowl of punch and ice cubes
splashed all over me.
That's all I know.
My hands touched one another, again,
as though they had never met.
In another room
they were giving me a shot
and tying me to the stretcher.
It is a waste of time
trying to save a man
without a head.
Tomorrow, that part will be found
empty in the coat room
with its flower
and its mouth full of medicine.
All the love
went with the body,
and the body is covered
with punch and blood. In fact,
they have taken the clothes
that I wore for love,
and put them in a bag. Now,
I am naked
and I don't have a head.
I am on the slab
and they are looking.
This one got murdered
in the middle of the dance.
from I Am Secretly An Important Man: