Landscape

there are mountains on my wrists

for every corrosive spillage of greed.

there are mountains on my thighs

for every bad angled reflective surface.

there are mountains on my stomach

for every unreturned meal.

there are mountains on my scalp

for every entity reaffirming worthlessness.

It takes earthquakes to bring mountains down—   (my chest wheezes in tectonic plates)

Egotistical Egoist

I wake to lingering warnings:

egotistical egoist.

Suffocated between insomnia and sleeping pills

I must be dreaming about you.

It pisses me off,

your lyrical subconscious presence far too elevated for your pathetic reality.

It pours, flooding words escaping my cracked hands

and I wonder if I can recreate you long enough to edit you into

revisable.

In nightmares, too, you tease:

waking in cold sweat and

embarrassed regret: egotistical

egoist

too good to waste.

I can’t pretend

to masquerade roles

I have no script for.

Standing in the ballroom: centered and focused

will not get me to light the chandelier.

A soft spoken promise lies dormant in my right hand

so tightly clutched

I wonder if it lives still.

I’ll flex open these muscles on the day of

reckoning

when stars detach from their strings–

stage collapses.

I’ll take on paper wings,

sprouting from its cave, this promise

producing a gust so fearful

tables turn upside down.

Then: centered and focused

I’ll gaze upward.

Stage direction:

The chandelier drops elegantly.