I’ve been known to walk through walls — with a door, through it,
juggling knives without handles, my lifelines all
the deeper, as if traced back and forth in red ink on my palms.
And I’m a loaded rifle with a light trigger, my penis some
redundant device tucked away into cotton drawers. An animal
is proven by the smell of me; every tooth in my mouth is
a triangle with one angle below freezing, perfect for piercing
flesh — but I make sure to wear my muzzle. I make sure
to swallow when the ache splits me: my head is a bottle of Aspirin
with one solitary pill inside, rattling around like a marble.
I’ve been drinking more and more water. I still can’t swim.
There is only down. And somehow, I’m the socket and
the scissors in the same: an accidental harm, like a slip-Freudian.
Their words fly through the window of my mouth like paper
airplanes into a darkening confusion. The howling wind blows me
fist-like, my bones like xylophone bars, but as I lay sleep
nothing is heard from me except an acclaimed imitation of death.
I haven’t remembered a dream in five years, but I do know
in the back of my throat a man hangs by his neck, swaying when
I speak; I know that, like a ghost, I walk through walls.about the author