Midnight Oil

Nude,
I commute to work.
Mouth that creaks like a door
Stomach-thunder
Cracked eye & raspy hand.
I thought I was supposed to be
Well-oiled. I thought there’s something
In toothpaste that wakes us up. What
Kind of fresh Grand Central is this? Empty of people, & every surface
Painted over white
By a bad landlord; even the skylights. When I pet you
All about your arms and face like a crazy lady, I
Am trying to sculpt the oil
Back into the world. Some don’t
Have a choice: “rivers of machine
Oil wash over the suffering of
The villagers.” Me at fifteen
Meditating my way
Through war. At night seeing the drab
Backyard overgrown
With black-blue tulips. Even then I kept
Losing you to this beauty...
That’s why I pet you so hard.
When Damir walked to
the bridge to The tune of tinnitus, it was dawn:
Breathing in and out, he
Kept sculpting the white clothes over the
Bruise between the chimneys. When he
Fired, he hit also the milkpail
Perched right behind his head on the railing.
The milk spilled into the brook. Don’t step into that shaft:
There’s no elevator there.
Just a rope smeared
With oil...You want this to mean something?
Then make it. Mean
Something.