1.
I have this perfect laugh—I tell you—perfect. It’s
part of the general feeling. I lift my coffee, tip it over, then sneak
out of the room entirely.
It’s a newborn—cartilaginous laughter, laughter like an
elephant’s trunk, you can see it sweeping across the dust, beating
the dust in two.
But I can’t laugh at a Balthus painting. Or the humans moving
from one interstate to the next. There’s not a freckle of laughter
on Mondays.
But still. Teeth bare—little teeth—every time.
In the middle of the night, I hear dogs and wonder what it is. What
could they possibly be howling after? Or is that a form?
2.
I suffer—sure—on the outside of sleep, touching the black
case it brings. I-20 takes you straight into Georgia’s mouth:
Spanish moss, azaleas, trees smashing into both sides of the car.
Savannah: so far south it’s buried, next to the red Atlantic,
a bed and breakfast, where there’s no difference between death
and the devil.
You can’t lean into them, those pillows pulsing, the mosquito
netting. You can’t scatter yourself across the exit ramps, hold
up a sign and go—
the same picture against the same screen: a Waffle House, hellishly
yellow, a glass door. People push through it, pull the door open—the
place ripples
with laughter—and there we are, at the table, carrying on.
3.
A hearty hand slaps me on the back, so I punch my mouth with beer.
An elephant is capable of eating its own trunk.
The television splashes like the waitress splashes—her cleavage
splits
the buttons—
The elephant makes its face smaller, more compact.
4.
Georgia's a smudge.
Having hard time with eyes-on-the-road.
Last night—no Bible found in bedside drawer—bad sign.
Waitress had five moles on her shoulder.
Could feel them in the dark.
5.
The moss hangs like baskets from branches—they could hold anything—like
infants. Leaves shake with this unmistakable delight.
I have a mind to tuck the latest night into the dark, hide it, put
the old love there.
It’s this fake river that gets me, all that would-have-been rain—Georgia
smells like before.
I could cover a whole moment with laughter: her hair, skin, lips moist
as a basement—
now I slash my mouth open for the sound.
6.
Georgia.
G-E-O-R-G-I-A
Georgia.
7.
I went with the rain—you could have threaded me in it. It’s
a needle machine, a machine with small wheels, the braids, blades, sticky
tips. It dangles
in front of me, all arm and thigh—throws me its hands and drags
them back dripping. Bang—the point where lines like to touch.
It barely happens.
8.
Fuck if I didn’t see her at a distance.
Pink dress, matching socks.
Want to be water—God, let me be water.
9.
There’s so much summer here: boats float and the sea sucks—you
can stretch it out endlessly. Stretch it
out of your mouth. There’s Sunday dresses sopping with milk—they
blink back the milk. Drip it on hymnals.
Therefore will not say thee nay—
The rocks are covered with phlegm and sand. Rocks beat their chests
for a sound. I fold and unfold the same sheet of paper—
someone must have written this down.
10.
These dumb kids scream straight into the ocean—
Clumsy and fierce, clumsy and giggling. Fish slap like tongues on their
toes.
I tried to hold one.
I slicked it over my stomach.
11.
I keep my eyes shut. My eyes are like closets. The simple pins
I sit at the dinner table—tired of sitting here. This afterwards,
already spread out in front of me.
She says You hate me don’t you—
That’s what does it.
I go long on her body with all of my hands—the scarves and the
ropes, holding it there.
12.
The weather here rises like weird love letters—it jams up traffic,
slips under doors. Windows revolve and turnstiles start spinning—you
can leave every time, anywhere, easy.
Bobcats of laughter howl from the bushes—nine minds at once,
a chorus of holes.
It’s old and sweet—I run my hands through it—blue
bread, iced tea, a gingham print landscapes.
She puts tiny microphones into her mouth, albeit burning. Albeit years
later. The kites tied to her wrists blow off—it's so beautiful.
I punch You are so beautiful in Braille on the floor.