directions to my place


Stop at a turnstile.  Get out a book. No, not that

one. Starlings whistle, old hinges. Instead of a bird,

think “spray” or “eyeliner”. Doors open and close,

a sound like falling wind chimes. Men try to light

their cigarettes on the platform. Wind blows through

their hands, slaps at matches. You never. Instead of fire,

imagine “damp”, think “underneath.” Write, “everyone

can tell that’s a wig.” This time the announcer is a man.  He

apologizes again. The cat in the carrying case cries

like an emasculated wolf, full of miniature fury.  Pretend

not to hear him. In each part of this small night, the night

has been lightening. Your clothes radiate and flutter,

the Gatorade freezes your hands. Neon fathers, small,

disappearing lights. “What’s wrong with your feet?”

More “make” believe, a shopping bag promises. A girl

removes a spray paint can from her back pack, rattles it with

a muscular wrist.   The opposite of girl is “bottle cap”.

Starlings whistle like hinges. An organ held tight.

You never finish anything well, there’s always threads

hanging, bones unmended. The opposite of stars is neon.

“What are you writing?”  “Nothing.” (The opposite of

cloud is mud.) Her spotless tan coat spread around her,

a woman vomits quietly by the trash bin. She crouches down –

soft, fawn volumes arch out, a cloud.  The opposite of hoof is engine.


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