Eileen Myles
Sweet heart
Sweet heart
Fresca’s got a new look
but I’m not drinking
that. My coke
struck the ice
and the ice
cube cracked.
I’m sitting by the little
Buddha
who is sitting in
my yard. I imagine
you walking in
gasping at the
same couch
the same bed
it’s almost
the same
town but this is
what I meant
and there’s
so much pleasure,
difference in
this, that. I meant
to be here. One
sleeps on what
they mean
and arises on the decided
side and that’s
the hope. An entire
room is opened
by particular feelings
that say you’re
on the edge
of the space
and then you
wait to watch
it grow. Grow
like a love
or a feeling of distrust
or a body grateful
for sun & breeze
and the rising and
falling of my dog’s
chest no gut.
The little Buddha’s
smiling southeast
I figured that
out. Their
genitals are
unknown in fact
their everything’s
smiling walked on
by ants planted
in the dirt
but not dead
activated by my
gaze. Their smiling
makes me glad
dog turns buddha’s
way I go
forward with con
fidence I
may turn nothing
up but this
gentle scratching
in my yard
before making
a call opening
the self
somehow so it’s
possible to
have a friend
to call
not only from
need but interest
in their life
the body I’m
pouring into
joyous to be
connected
to someone
while covered
by ants surrounded
by breeze
actually touched
by birds
their sound
then landing
there is nothing
romantic
in their
absence
the bird
is all touch
no matter
how distant
their flight
the sky is open
my gaze is
wide it matters
how they
dive and
hover. The silly
cluck the ninny
constant
the hoot makes
the grey sky
blue; trees
brown; green
slanting trees
the woman
dying in her
face thought
am I recording
but it was
the young man
counting everything
Korakrit
whose art
I liked
so much
performed bird
in the dying
woman’s sky
so his
quote was reverential
that she
could be copying
anything by
dying was more about
him. A moustache
on the sound
that life’s
made
of. I think
you don’t
miss me
enough
or you regard
me as seasons
that simply
come & it’s
true I’m
everything. I used
to love
so much
to show
you
my
poems.
but everything’s
not enough
you have to go out
& shake
everything’s
hand and the
tremendous
feeling of
everything
is not shook enough.
I’m sick of being
god for you.
I’m not the
Fresca or
the Buddha
or the bird. I’m
the ice
that cracks
I’m really
feeling it
now. The amazing
difference
of contact
everything’s
gasp. It begins
so slow. Hours
of freezing waiting
a life
and the draining
of it
by waiting
too long. Riding
around in
a car. I’m not
any coke. I’m
every
coke. And
a bird
likes the
sound of
that: to be
so close
the earth
parts for
its own
arrival. The time
of day
is enchanted
by my jeans
on the line.
I’m enchanted
by everything
too. How could
I be it
and feel it.
Drawing sun lines
sticks.
If I say too
again and
I’m creating
a pattern
someone who
doesn’t love
me will
say you
say too too
much. I suppose
going blind is momentarily
seeing colors
in everything
and remembering
them for
the rest of
your life. I’m afraid
to tell you I’m
going blind. What
I’m saying
is I’m retiring
from god. I will
feel my genius
quietly the furrows
of a dead
tree accepting
my love. You start
like a car
and pepper
in a number
of growls. That’s dog.
you roll
and you’re
bird and
Buddha’s
difficult
now. More
of an
aside. That something
so different
as the sun
could turn
I think
and we’re turning
on our dirty
little urn
there’s a movie
about everything
my getting
this part
of that
endlessly
obliged
to be wise. Upstairs
16 little
eggs turn
in another
galaxy someone
else’s sandwich.
Today I
was so busy
I didn’t
even see
lunch. I had
it but
I didn’t
see it
at all. The distant
eggs are turning
for someone
else. I poured
Fresca
into my glass
and then
I poured
my vodka
and then
I got drunk.
Darker
day now
when my throat
fills and
Buddha’s
awake. A bee
wants
to sting
me and
in that
moment
I would
notice
everything. Why
do you
think I’m
sweet. Why
must I
die.
