As a kid, I used to pretend

to walk on the ceilings of my parents’ house;

I’d hold a mirror like a plate, or a tray,

the way I’d use it later

to snort a line of coke off of.

But before I discovered more sophisticated ways

of making the world disappear,

I’d go from room to room

looking down into the mirror,

stepping carefully over doorjambs

and around light fixtures,

happy as the flies that crawled up there,

or as happy as I imagined flies

must be, though really who knew about them,

they always sounded so angry

with their tiny buzz saw voices—

In the real house, my oldest brother

would be trying to slam my father into a doorway

or chasing his siblings

around the table with a butcher knife;

he’d pull me out of hiding in a closet

to practice hitting something weaker. No wonder

I wanted to live on the pure white ceiling

and inhale the clean granules that turned

my brain starry, no wonder I envied

the flies, caroming above us, or tracking through sugar

and careening out the open screen door

though sometimes someone picked up a swatter

and smacked them dead against

the window glass—a fate I also occasionally envied—

but now I’m glad I’m here,

years and miles from my handsome, troubled family,

on vacation next to a shimmering lagoon

with egrets wading into their serene reflections

and workmen on the roof next door

hammering and sawing, the sound of repair going on all day.

Conversation

CONVERSATION

This is a paean to last night’s dinner conversation,

which began with a discussion

of the transportive virtues of various wines

before my friend and I set out on our expedition

over vast territories of subject matter,

as if we were the early explorers of America,

charting the scarification practices

of Bay Area tribes, mapping the terrain

between carcinoma and rare books,

preparing our report for the faraway king:

the forests of literary influence,

the arroyos of rehab and elevator sex,

the great prairies of Zoloft and home ownership.

Over dessert, our talk at last arrived

at the legendary cities of gold,

the five photographs of Marilyn Monroe

reputed to grace the wall of the Men’s Room

at Tosca’s in North Beach. Reader, I am here

to assure you of the truth of this account.

We headed down Columbus, past Kerouac Alley,

the conversation leading to the act itself

the way talking about, say, kissing someone

can lead, if you’re lucky, to a cessation

of all conversation—and as I stood before the three

porcelain urinals, and beheld her true loveliness,

I knew I had to deliver this image to you,

so that you might suddenly feel the urge

to talk your way into a daring adventure,

like circumnavigating the globe

or the rooms of your house, or your own heart,

which has never stopped wanting to tell you