I
scamper upstairs
in the dark,
chased by phantoms
made of ski masks,
exposed nerve endings,
and glinting knife edges.
lock the door
of the air-conditioned box
and spin old records:
man with guitar
singing about bargain rooms
on the west coast
with fruit flies
in the television,
pink snapdragons
in the oak drawers,
long-dead phantoms
coiled around the phone line.
become someone else's ghost
in someone else's hallway
to not think about the future
of cars colliding
and needles piercing skin
that paces back and forth
at the edge of town,
waiting for the right moment
to burst through the walls
like a wrecking ball.
prepare a bunker
with canned food
and ample ammunition
for that fateful day
when the spirits
buried in this room
walk the earth again
and come to the door,
demanding penance.
devour all the books,
all the vinyl records,
all the cartridges
while the sun
still grows grass
and flowers underfoot.
the gaping maw
that turns meaning to
into meant to
does not wait
for the stars
to align themselves
in just the right order
before it emerges
from the packed earth
and swallows the house.
II
some terrible beast
with eyes like suns
and old slights worn
on its flesh like blisters
is tearing its way
up and down
the central valley.
it has sworn
that all the worms
trying to burrow
into its flesh
will know the error
of their ways
when it has left
a scar on the earth
that grandchildren
will ask about in awe.
plastic collides
with plaster,
and a loud snap
is followed by
the unmistakable sound
of an unfortunate machine
spilling its green
and gray intestines
onto the wood panel floor.
relief comes in waves
once the innocent thing
that does nothing
but capture the result
of communication
between neurons and fingers
has been smashed
beyond repair,
once the key
to the house of mirrors
has been bent
until it can no longer
let reflections be seen.
when the glass
shatters on the floor,
when the sweet wine
that it once held
stretches its many arms
across the kitchen tiles
like an octopus
trying to get back
to the ocean before
the oxygen runs out,
when it sends shards
flying in all directions
like birds after
a rifle shot sounds,
the world shifts.
how dare you
becomes how are you,
the demon of fire
to be extinguished
becomes the god
to be worshiped,
those who would oppose
become white bones
scattered on the beach.
when the sun sinks
into the pacific
and night descends
upon the streets
and the houses
like a pillow
smothering a face,
this room's windows
turn into mirrors.
in those panes,
slowly into view
comes a monster
that hates reminders
of what it is,
of what it looks like
when no one's looking,
of how much it
resembles its father.
III
bring on the winter,
bring on the blizzards,
bring on the icy roads.
let the frigid air
blow these walls down
and carry this bed
into the black night
where everyone
is a hazy figure
lingering under
a dim lamppost
a block or two away
from someone else
as the flakes
come down hard
like the debris
after an explosion.
beyond the sky,
the satellite
watches children
bound outside
once they awake
to find that the call
came in overnight
while they slept.
it observes
silent and motionless
as they shape snow
into tiny balls
and hurl them
at each other,
as they form
the white powder
into haphazard
little figures,
as their parents
call them inside
for some time
with fireplaces
and hot chocolate.
it yearns to be
among them,
among the laughter
and hollering
and freezing cold,
but its orbit
eventually pulls it
away, as ever.
when the cold snap
comes to town,
and all the lawns,
all the houses,
all the cars
are buried under
feet of snow,
a certain gratefulness
seems to float
on the morning air.
under all that white,
blood and viscera
can be hidden.
all is revealed
when the spring sun
shines down
and turns the snow
to cold, clear water
that trickles down
into the gutters,
but three months
is more than enough
time to disappear.
when i was fifteen,
i had it in my head
that eventually,
i would be living
with you in a house
in a sunnier part
of the country,
and i would wake
up in the middle
of the night during
a summer month,
and you would be
sleeping too deeply
to notice a thing,
and i would slip
out of the bed
and into my
nicest clothes,
and i would get
into my car,
and i would drive
for as many days
as it took to get
back to my hometown,
and i wouldn't
bring my cell phone,
and i would pull
into the parking lot
of the gardens
that my mother
took me to all the time
when i was young,
and i would take
a pistol out
of the glove box,
and i would hide
it somewhere on me,
and i would walk
to the entrance,
and i would smile
at the young lady
working the front,
and i would pay
for one admission,
and i would make
my way to a bench
in a quiet place
with trees and flowers,
and i would look
up at the sun,
and i would close
my eyes for a while,
and i would open
them once again,
and i would take
the gun out,
and i
and i
IV
close your eyes.
open the window.
let the cold air in.
let it fill your lungs,
make them expand
like balloons being
pumped with helium.
release it slowly
and evenly as
you open your eyes.
look up at the
fluorescent bulb
above your head
and listen to its
gentle humming.
remember the room
and the body
that you are of
with their lights
like yellow teeth and
lumps of scar tissue.
pour a glass
of cold water
from the bathroom tap
and gulp it down
as quickly as
you can manage.
hit the shower
and turn up the heat
until the bathroom
fills with steam.
let the water
trickle off of
your skin and
take everything down
the drain with it.
step outside into
the crisp night.
watch the moon
float overhead
like a hot air balloon.
turn your gaze
to the white orb
perched on top of
a black metal pole
next to the street.
think for a moment
that you see a figure
underneath the light,
hovering just an inch
or two above the ground.
blink and find
that it is gone.
step back inside.
watch the cat
as it trots across
the living room
into the kitchen.
hear the crunching
when it arrives
at the tin dish next
to the dinner table.
make your way
slowly up the stairs,
hearing the wood
creak underfoot.
return to the room
and see the chair
pushed away from
the desk, waiting.
V
john darnielle awoke
to a phone call
at three in the morning
and suddenly found
that it was all over,
and david montgomery
got his thousand yards
with a dozen ghosts
watching overhead,
and daniel johnston
went on stages
around the world
where they called him
the greatest songwriter
currently living.
i spent years of my life
deciphering smoke
signals sent up
into the sky from
all over, from wherever
there was kindling
and space for flame.
i could have sworn
that the words i was
decoding were forming
a spiral staircase
outside my window
that could take me
away from my own
tired bones and
mutilated fingers.
out in brooklyn,
young david berman
hanged himself
just before the tour
was going to begin,
but the backing band
kept on playing.
out in the woods,
i am making a fire
in the pyramid way,
just like my father
tried to teach me.
i have been sick
to my stomach
for days, but still
i carry on fetching
dry sticks from
the freezing earth.
i hope the smoke
will be seen far away
and make someone
dream about stairs.
VI
blazing down m-20,
music from the speakers
becomes promise redeemed.
the headstones will
climb up the hills,
and a camera
will poke its head
out of the television,
but not tonight.
tonight, the first snow
is coating the grass,
and the flakes before
me are melting as
they hit the salted
pavement, and the
bridge has not iced
before the road,
and i am doing
an even fifty-five,
and cloven prints
are turning up
on the neighbor's
lawn, the only
blemish on an
otherwise immaculate
sea of uniform white.