Now It's Nothing

Now it’s a window of nothing,
now it’s a Japanese Kimono closed against its
skin, dead white as apple flesh,
nothing like sugar poison,
nothing a solid nothing
like a cube,
like a block of ice, like a salt-lick, like an undertaker’s dream.
Two nothing on top of a one nothing, a pickax,
a spring released from the asshole of an airplane, mankind’s
science.

I am nothing;
that’s a nocturnal idea. That idea has no teeth. That idea
is as complicated as a tarantula, with eight eyes
and as many legs, hairy as a dog.
That faint aroma of your mother’s perfume is very real
even though
you’re six or seven states away.
Nothing fleas nothing.
Losing in a battle of zero.
Police chasing you in a dream.
A murderer’s eye with you in it, like the bloody seed of a tomato.
Your deceased cat come back to life, you swear it.
He’s in the shed. He’s shivering.
Your father’s urn crawling out of its grave. He is there.

These are characters who cry and we are addicted to their pain.
Their pain is a synonym for our own.
How am I supposed to go like this
without…

I am quiet as an ocean tonight.

Our burials have been solved.
Our coffins are pixels in the earth.
Our brains consent to our deaths,

which is proof that they are indifferent to us.

A chair, a wastebasket, an
alligator, a carp,
a

canyon.

Who is this man I’m chasing
through it?

We carve the rock like a river.

First off, he’s
not
there either,

as am I