take a leaf from Carl’s Book of Kale, his family tree of bitter and

crisp,

and soften those green pubic kinks, and soak them in butter.

And whoever I’m sleeping with, or no one (it’s no one), it is not useless,

and when I break my fast, it will be noticeable,

one will not have to squint to notice it.

Sometimes I sleep with a different man in my sleep every night.

Or maybe I am sleeping with God.

Or maybe I am some form of God,

sleeping each night with a different mortal man,

I who was always so faithful,

I who love faithfulness.

Narcissus Takes Another Look at Household Tasks

In the 32nd week of solitary, safe and, well, spoiled,

I lose my verve. I’m sleeping O.K., and there are

moments of kindness in my dreams, and stretches of eros.

I’m doing sit-ups, trying to contact my core,

and tidying the dirt-floor basement—on an

unsteady wooden table, a dozen six-packs of beer

from a wedding 25 years ago.

The cardboard rips as I pick up a bottle from its recessed circle

of dust,

thinking of the nut of my divorce mortgage—or was it the vig—

the way the attorneys—the way attorneyness

slid into the story of the house.

I tilt the green glass, and pour the slender-necked ale out into

the sink,

it goes down inward, inward, as if against infinity.

Outside, I scrape blossoms of lichen off the inner curve of the

granite birdbath,

and drop the latest dead mouse, maybe with milk in her breasts, I am

so sorry, on the granite wall for a crow.

Back to the cellar for more bottles planted among the little vomiting batteries.

Who says the forms of art require joy?

Could not rot suffice, or anger?

The tip of my tongue with the blister on it

is a wounded feeler. From underground up,

I am like a wasted festival.

A squirrel stands up next to the wall

and puts one paw over her heart.

And me, I pledge allegiance to the sweat and salt.

Monday, November 2, 2020

The day before the next end of the world—

not the last end, not the next to last, but the one before that—

when I wake up, I lie there for an hour with my eyes closed.

It’s as if, without sex, I have changed species,

but I’m not another species, I’m no species.

When I visited them, George and Mary said,

We have a view of the Golden Gate Bridge—

go in the bathroom and stand on the toilet and look out the small window.

8 months in isolation, I have given up on ever having a boyfriend again.

No touch till death—and then I won’t be there for it.

All my flirtatiousness, all my seductiveness, wasted.

Yet I’m still a beggar, it’s just my nature.

But I don’t even beg from myself anymore.

I just can’t have sex with myself this week, I am too bitter.

So I beg words from my friends, and drop their generous off-fall here.