Far From Heaven
This is what happens when past
and present collide. They come
together on a bank of fog. I think
it’s going to be cool inside
but instead it’s hot. I am
burning up. The whole thing
slams into my head like a freak
wave. I stand barefoot on the balcony
and wonder why the fuck
birds are singing at 1 in the morning.
There is no longer any division
between day and night.
It is all night. I am late
on the uptake. Now I understand
there is a reason to shut
down. You know, the way people turn off
the plumbing to prevent
pipes from busting. This is
something I forgot to remember.
I let the water run
too long and now my body
has forgotten how to sleep. It is
impossible to sleep when you are lying
in a flood. I am haunted
by little things - the head of an octopus
or the rotting body of a dead
fish. One stream of light in a dirty corner
a thousand miles away. A piece of hair
stuck to the side of a paper cup.
The rumble of trucks at midnight.
It’s 4 a.m. I close my eyes
and design the shape and materials
of the box for my heart.
Some kind of storage unit.
It’s difficult to draw
something to contain a hole. I need
hard lead and a wide tip.
A torch and some heat
resistant glue. Maybe it should
be made of concrete or cast iron.
Something so heavy you can barely
lift it. When it gets hot
it burns you. My eyes drift
to half sleep. I stand in the empty street
at night and light whole books
of matches. I strike
one match, then light all the little heads
and watch them burst into flame.
One street lamp drops a finger
of light into the gutter.
Dozens of books of matches are burning
now. My naked body is cast
in shadow. I don’t care
that the tips of my fingers are blistered
from the hot touch of burning
sulfur. I just wish I could
remember how to sleep.
Four nights pass.
Insomnia has become a way
of life. My feet are cold. There is an empty
space where my thoughts once formulated.
All I have now is the trace
of memory past and present.
A bouquet of bruises on my thigh
fades to yellow. My shoulder dangles
from the socket of a drunken girl.
A wave shoves me under for another push
into the trash heap of my body.
I watch the melodramas
of Douglas Sirk and Todd Haynes. I am
brought to tears because the women are
suffocating, and the red
dress is no longer a red
dress. It’s blue and swallowed
by the stillness of a dark bedroom. I breakdown
because a blowjob becomes a sign
of salvation and because
Dennis Quaid is crying and it makes
me cry to see a man cry. I cry
for Julianne Moore and all the kisses
that never happen. My heart
gets stuck on the last goodbye
and now I am sobbing
into my pillow. Those fucking birds
will not shut up. The clock clicks
past another hour. The next day
comes and my body moves
through it like a dream. At this point
I’ve been awake so long I don’t know
if I’m awake or asleep. I drive through
downtown San Diego, and there is no
barrier between me and the 17 year old
girl who lived in this shithole 32 years ago.
I shouldn’t call it a shithole, but it
feels like one. 1979 was
a very bad year. It’s late. The clock
turns over another day, and I am
in bed with the weight of everything
I can’t change. Everything that has
happened. Everything that is
happening now. The plumbing is broken again.
The tears I never cried thirty years ago
come out, and it’s ugly.
I forgot my screwdriver.
I am very far from heaven.
I don’t know how to fix this.
It’s time to watch another movie.
It’s time to cry for someone else.