Thursday, June 10, 2021

March 3 by Eileen Myles

March 3

The quick
exchange
of emails
between
the former
lovers creates
a soft hole
in the day
and the
night
before. It snowed
but it was
supposed
to be larger &
everything’s
closed the streets
are wet
I hear and I
won’t
step into
them.
 
One poem
for today
but no
many little
ones. The coffee
slightly
altered
is good
my bare
feet in
bed ready
to work.
I work
in the field
of dreams
where I
have met
you many
times. I feel
closer, to
you this
morning
and probably
last night
when the
doorway
slightly
opened
because
of our
notes
was flooded
with ghosts.
 
When I was
young
I liked the
emptiness
of my
home &
now like
it or not
here is
this sweet
accumulation.
 
The cameras
all that
everything
I do can’t
touch
the single
statement
of breeze &
loss & quaint
beauty
things I’ve
had since
I was a
kid
the secrets
of my home.
I feel con
demned
by this
chaotic
museum
of stuff &
yes I
desire
to photograph
it the
bowls u liked
the cup
u touched
& me in a teeshirt
that used
to be special
& now I
carouse in
bed w myself
in it. I don’t
know if
this
will ever
be different
and that
is the
feeling of
this.
 
I feel like
a tree
the invisible
part of friendship
and drinking
together
and warning.
 
One empty wall
is the least
I can do
for myself.
Late at night
I enjoy
the brown
pages of a cowboy
show
teevee
on my lap
till practically
dawn
interesting
written
by a gambler
 
oh I have
so many
shows
one in Florence
one day
you were
taking a shower
I think
I thought
I love
this television
 
because
it’s become
the way
to love
the road
of becoming
is a screen
belonging
on it in
my dream.
 
The excellent
moments
the man
barges in
and says
do you ever
think
about
film. The poetry
of accident
haunts
like a circus
tent over
my days
 
and that
fades
and a new
one. I
begin to
write
about dying.
THIS
story ends.
It begins
to be part
of the plot
and do I
love you
for your
distance
from it
or could
I love you
because
you are
close
or your
exciting
difference
so smart.
I love
myself.
The squeaky
little voice
that says
in here
owning the void
and grooving
on it. Voice
over
you’re not
so bad
and then
I begin
to work.
 
My dead
mother
is around
my lover
not far
keeping u
here by
not calling
anyone
is that the tub
in which
I die.
 
Weir-doo
woo woo
woo
 
what’s that
bird.
 
because
I don’t
have kids
and this
is such
a blessing.



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