I hear stories about myself I don’t remember.
I mean I see them. Synesthesia, the sound
of wet light, the night slit open
and dribbling down my throat.
My xylophone of days dings
dissonant as strangers waking up together,
I talk with two tongues. I’m full of shit; or,
as we say in the academy, facetious. I can’t
keep an identity, only a trash heap of symbols
by the door guffawing or grieving, I don’t know
where my story went but hear it out there
like the methane-sick canary
thumping in the mine. I speak Dionysian.
Half-civil, in the key of the dog dragging
away my face, running with it over the hills.
I’m sorry too honey. Here’s a bar of music
or a bar wet with glass rings,
a double vodka soda or the mythic
double, my sexy shadow suffocating me
with a grand piano string. That’s right. I wring
my own neck now. In the recurring dream
where I kill myself I hear
footsteps in the hall,
see a house with no walls
smell that fat Hell
of trumpeting sky. I have the blues.
I have the reds. I vomited blood on the bed.
Listen. I have no ear for music but music
won’t leave me alone. It dry heaves,
pours itself another,
the hair of the dog. I’ll forgive the animals
for their honest violence when I’m dead, not
a second sooner. I have a habit and the habit
has me but I have the habit more. I have it
just enough more. Tonight I’m throwing
an extravagant party, God, how I dread it.