i’m here.
none of my clothes fit me.
there are moths in all my sweaters.
my mailbox smells like dead letters.
my ring has dropped off my hand like an old apple
but i’m still here.
there are snakes like ribbons tied to my arms.
there are dances i’ll never go to, women i’ll never kiss
and the bottle is my last home
but i’m still here, dammit, still here.
i left a section of my name on the killing floor.
i slipped my picture into the mayor’s mail slot
and demanded a recount. i mentioned my religion
to a secret agent and he photographed me with his tie —
yes, still here.
i keep looking for the room around me to change.
there are countries i am sure i could live in if i could get to them.
i look around and nothing moves — hips, eyes, hairlines.
i am here. and if i am here,
then i ought to accept that, i ought to be
nearly complete. i have my health, a neurosis
ripe for writing, a decent problem
with social dis-ease, lonely nights long enough
to rope together both ends of a long bad year.
this is enough for art. it is enough for manhood,
for personality and character. it is what i expected to receive:
something larger than my personal misery
that demands i stay put without any comfort.
so it is hard to understand why
i slide down in the bed, the chair, the driver’s seat
when someone asks the empty air where i am.
and it is hard even for me to understand
why i have started to hold my tongue when the question is asked.
Dear Santa…
