Glory

I wish I

could go to

Delphi, slide my

head past the front

door’s column to

see if the place

was still

in service, but

instead of priestesses

I would find

publicists discussing

the books he’s

sold and

his next paid

appearance, legal

tender replacing

libation, heaped in

silver bowls, “Ah

a true fan” Apollo

would say when

my jeans and

v-neck made their

way through the

tunnel of Blackberries.

“Would you

like a signed

t-shirt or a

photo?” but

then he would

pause,

take the look

from my

eyes and hold

it in his

hand, “Best

go to Calliope

if that’s

what you want.”

A hephastean

bodyguard would

place his

hand on my

shoulder,

gliding me

to a quiet

room. The lady

would be middle-

aged, frames

on the walls with

Homer and

Virgil’s handwriting,

and though

many could step

to her unknown,

she would

know me. “I

am as helpful

to you as a

fortune cookie, my

dear. Do not

live my life, your

existence is

the opposite of

mine.”

Obsession

The word

Yay

sconced by

a period—a

block that every

writer must climb

over.

Throw the

conjunction to

the noun until

it becomes a he

or she.

Soon I

will forget the

voice of

double negative

and only hear

the hymn of

verb.

Personal Coup

To be

famous, like

nothing—become

the man without

computer or

mailbox.

Walk back into

caves, save

your voice

for rocks, hide

your ears.

Bones the

proof of your

life, the marrow

blank microchips.

Affection

Someday, I

will walk around and

see discarded

webpages on the

ground.

Comments half

crumpled from a

hand that only

half cared.

A smiley

face held too

long, it was

too scared.

Liking

things, not

people.

Yoke

It’s not the

climbing of

Everest, it is

the making of

Everest that stares

down at my

life to make it

a dot.

Does it matter

whether the stem

cell dreams of

becoming a

foot or a mouth?

Or will it

settle to be

a fingernail.

Alone

The tip

jar for my

thoughts has been

empty for years.

Which is worse?

The penny you

keep in your

hand out of

disappointment, or

the one that stays

in your pocket.

Dream

While I was

sleeping, you

plucked my brain

out of my head, rolled

it out like a carpet

from the Taj Mahal, and

pinned the uppermost

corners to a clothesline.

When the dog

licked my face, the

dancing thoughts of

my nap retreated

to the eves of the

consciousness-platform—

normally they are

bodies waiting for

my order, but in

dream thought, a prism,

can let the white light

shine through it.

I know the smell

of you, sniffing you

out until I found

you barefoot in the

grass, staring at my

brain they way you’ve

done for years.

To me, the gray-pink

tissue all looked the

same, but to you

the bulky swirls and

curves were the

topography of all

I have ever been or done.

My cerebral organ

before you, you answered

the question that bubbled

up from the frontal mountain.

“My dear, there was mold

  all over the creases of

  your brain. That’s why

  you’ve been sleeping

  so much.”