Love Me Til I'm Dead

  Wasn’t that 12th street



wasn’t it May




6:29 pm I was late




I’d just bought



Rob’s bildungsroman



you mean memoir



the bookseller



working the cash



register told me



you’re on the wrong



floor follow me



 



Told him I also needed to taste



what I was up against



 



signing myself



over to X agency



who’ll take 15%




of the rights




of the royalties




if they successfully



peddle my memoir



(whose takeaway



is messing up love



via capitalism)




& hawk it to some



Big Five publisher



who’ll nary give



a shit not until



it officially bombs



& who’ll change



the French title




to a phrase more



marketable & also cut



the photograph



overlooking my third



apartment before



Sandy hit Brooklyn



wasn’t that 2012



 



6:31 pm I was skittering



across Broadway




my shoes killing me




& read Rob’s first sentence



(I needed also to *hear*



what I was up against)



“this must be the place”



it both pleased




& nonplussed me



thought unwittingly



of David Byrne




in Hollywood




c. 1984 onstage



singing “sing




into my mouth”




& “never for money,



always for love”




his white suit




& sweat stains



wasn’t that




*Stop Making Sense*



 



(Emily loves this song



I thought that’s




what I’m up against?)



 



Whacked the book



shut & muttered



*intéressant, intéressant*



stretching the *a’s*



& tittering at myself



a tiny gag my horrid



French accent




an abandoned toast



& thinking of X now



you Francophile



haven’t seen you



since that winter



3.5 years ago no




that was Scholes St.



when you wheezed



& said I’m uncertain



I’m that person




who waking loves



you anymore



 



yes, *you*



you said



 



& headed eastbound



when I looked up




& also marching



across 12th street



there was another X



I half-loved




that following spring



3.5 years ago she



gave me this



two-fingered salute



touching her brow



was she leaving




her seminar maybe



dinner with dad




I wouldn’t decide



thought unwittingly



instead of her



rheumy & I guess



also pellucid




eyes those nights



on Powers St.



on my stoop



when the stars



I said stunk of



beef tallow



 



My slack mouth



making a shy noise



when I saw her




it was like *oh*



but a century longer



 



“Out of all those



 kinds of people,”



my shoes sang



& killing me



“we drift in and out”



 



& you could call



her name but no



you *live* here now



 



*ain’t that America*



on the radio




when the taxi



swerved around me



 



& the drug dog



licking anxiously



the other bigger



drug dog’s paws



 



that was Broadway



words like *jornada*,



*chaparral*, *beldam*,



*snow* *blindness*,



*malanders*, *ilex*,



*rebozo*, *chivaree*,



*death* *camas*



 



I bed down here now



 



new whorls




of blonde hair




& fur in my mouth



 



but when I wake up



4:01 am unsleeping



& the apartment’s



glum-smelling



like blue milk



& mustard seed



 



inside the amphora



there’s a third smell



a pair of ox-eyes



with their bruised



& drooped heads



isn’t it those flowers



some mornings



who aren’t always



already dead



when I wake up



& smell what



I’m up against