Negatives

A name can be unknown
to its owner. “This is me”
holds nothing necessary.
A name is not a guarantee.
Meaning happens suddenly,
accidentally – in the bank
billboard’s Halloween
spider imploring you to
buy and borrow. In the
stranger’s “Fuck you!”
as the bus pulls away –
tributaries of self branch
like cracks in a broken
windshield.

The spider, the curse,
the arbitrary – press
buttons, turn knobs,
hammer gears in the skull.
The light box stammers
on. All the old negatives begin
to glow. The name

breaks from the inside. Pieces
of shattered shell are scattered
around the nest. Once legs ran
from teeth now they test flight.

Gliding, giving names, classifying,
the world becomes a library
of rocks. In the quiet, in the dust, each
stone is stamped with a fingerprint’s
grooved egg.

Categorize, catch space in sections,
push air through soap’s surface. Pressure
holds the clear iridescent spheres, tiny
ghosts of the great liquid globe.

Fragile as a bubble, the body always
floats down the road’s last mile. It
yearns for maudlin hours in the armchair,
incorporated armature, amateur handguns.
Skin seeks defense against time’s
incisors. But mind still pleads with
suffering: “Transfer your broken bones
to me. Crack my ankles, break my arms,
twist my knees. My fingers are cables –
send me your nerves’ frantic energy.”

Days pare down. Years carve
the retina’s curve. Torso, legs are
shaped by trial and chance. Arms’ length
is all passion and remonstrance.

As the crow rants listen for familiar
syllables. Recognize letters in the falling
spider’s trance tying line from gutter to
ground. The prey’s vibrations excite the web,
echoes of energy shake through the filament.

Busy autumn insects will soon
be gone. Time to trip on slick steps,
slip on black ice, back slapping concrete.
Time to fall asleep in cold sunlight,
crimson leaves dropping. Dream of

living underwater where falling
is easier. The surface, a tall ceiling
spreading air’s light, sifting the sun’s
tension through a gray haze. Emerge,

frightened, through the sick tide
that climbs and drops. Lips sign
frantic denials. The beach is a smile
of debris. Eyes open in a moonless

void. The body needs sleep but the dark
is colonized by day. Night is mortgaged
to an early morning. Awake, thoughts
crest and break – hands around a pale

waist, touching temples, framing
a face. Awake, there’s an alarm
in someone’s car. A motor skims
the toxic reservoir. In a loud world

quiet words forage to survive.
Whispering is digitized, wire-bound,
bounced from ground to satellite and
back. Senders and receivers wait alone.

Mind paces in its pit of bone. The tap
of a nickel flipped from thumb to palm
expires before it rises to the ear. Nearly
all the noise

is poisonous. The clamor of engines
is constant. Stuttering explosions
wreck the calm. Those on high buy
silence. Those below are assaulted

by television and radio. Every song
that’s played is known. Lyrics are
laced with petty wants. Ears hunt for
terror’s trace, the tremble of a haunting
line, notes of the implosion. Vision

escapes, looks past the atmosphere to scan
galaxies, elopes from Mars to Jupiter’s
bloody eye to the bloom of a solar storm.
Rope it back. Turn the telescope on this

tiny distant room. This house cages electricity
and heat. Close the window, bring the lens inside.
Outside the cold grows thick and heavy. Frost
frets from roof to lawn. For proof, toss the lamp

through the doorway. Watch hot glass explode
in frozen air. Now the chair, the teak table. Cram
the couch through the front door. Make the yard
a burning disaster. No more dusting, no more

taking care. No more porcelain figurines
for masters. No one will starve and call
it living. No more forgiving the command
and calling it freedom. No more strangers
watching strangers from house to house.
No more paying from week to week and
calling it making money. Home is

another country. Weekends are a foreign
holiday from the scent of toner, the comfort
of dust and paper clips. At home the fridge
is broken, the faucet drips. The week is only
hours away. Vermilion clouds clap and march
at the edge of a dying Sunday.