dummy

I want to see you
burn body burn / body
burn dark / dark
burn far / bright / miserable /
burn on the wretched failing
scumbling as you go
toward the door.

For you would never tell me
if it felt sexual
if you were annealed by it

and whether
if I had the majesty
you had the right
to die.

Sometimes, as we’re dreaming, as the mall
around us ceases to exist, is emptied of its kids,
adults, kites, radical bookstores, philosophies,
food courts, chocolate chip cookie stands, glass huts,
watch repair shops, gourmet coffee sellers–
anything that might impede discovery–
we push the cloth back and make the man behind it
work for us. He pulls a lever and down comes a crane.

Meanwhile, the fountain behind us continues to spume:
we sit with our backs to the water and eye the plants:
and the plants eye us.

Love is an ideal, isn’t it?
Like Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony,
like John Cage’s four minutes and thirty three seconds
of pure silence.

It doesn’t seem to have much to do with how we linger
or don’t linger over our famous nights.

And I would agree with you, that we aren’t
elastic enough for this. Our suspenders/garters–no good.
Too loud. Yours are black/white/black–intellectual.
Mine are grey and slap the footboard–
anyway I don’t wear them.

But if it’s not written, is it really like
standing in a fire–or not really–
more like burning, a species of self-immolation?

I expect a good death. If I get it,
love will hold the door for me
and I will go in.
It will be my house, my place
of possession, all the space
that I waited on.
I won’t be afraid.

I’ll walk through my
house and try each door,
grasping it and slamming it,
the fit and the jamb
designed. And where the rooms go
as if for the last time.

That’s when your heart will break–
little basket, little stopped-up
barrel of wheat. You who without a door
1000 different locks will click
shut forever.

Jellyfish goes to the auction: and Jellyfish finds his legs there, 2 for $10, or a little higher if there are other bidders. Jellyfish has to borrow an arm, to lift the felt paddle which signifies “I want you.” He has to have the paddle the arm that is the important thing. For the sea has had pity on him: he wants to sell her the legs back and soon, soon he’ll be able to.

Did you guess? Maybe you guessed. That is where he keeps them: tables & tables & tables of sharp knives. That is the showroom, the flea-market stall. Here is a customer: Can you get it for me? Oh yes, be careful. That one, the little abalone golden-handled one in front. Give it to me. I want it. When do you see the living?