a partial erasure of Andrew Holleran’s Grief

 

 

Spring. The interior of molds. His chest

a small mix of antiques & empty. A non-life.

An invalid. Mother had always asked me

to like an old room, find something one day

for the past. Pleasure, so confusing. Used to

verbalize fluid. In shock. The quiet was flying

on bereavement. Let go, realists. Facts looked

like peanut butter. Town cornets in gloom.

A wall against another wall as kitsch.

This thick horn, raised on youth. A tomb

turned three books into a skylight.

The outline of the city was mostly defeat.

I heard the doorbell. I opened my door.

You could call it reparation.

 

*

 

Outside, another lamplight looked at me,

then an odd past burned from within.

A crab that had shed one shell found another

old radio. An oboe concerto. The front page

of a homosexual letter claimed all reforms

would simply take over a dog’s toenails.

Mine, half an inch long, a subtext

to this city. I was thick

anachronism formed around a face

that advertised youth. I, for a month,

arranged teeth and tears in a museum.

Real life was difficult—a boy held a light,

lay down, took a cigarette and said,

“Are you in?”

 

 

*

 

A swelling. Where? A nursing home

strangely said grief was useless. A luxury.

I watched grief swallow chemicals to devastate

its autobiography, its bipolar forehead.

People became their past when life had just

begun. An early instinct told me not to worry.

True feelings made an amber glow.

He camouflaged. I could tell he liked history.

Torn every day now to distract myself.

Thousands of feet. Walls swaying in time.

A mother was an argument without

anesthetic. A gay bar was a narrow return

to guilt. To live inside people—people—people.

George, Lincoln, Grant. Pattern mattered more than names.

 

*

 

A strange traveler in search of relief stepped

in a dark room. The simplest, the most

beautiful faded. Fabric, he thought,

industrially urban. He didn’t know cyanide

was secretary of Whitman. The library,

a vacant shell living in the present that cost

nothing. So much wandering. Dim light.

Silence. A book said, Either you looked like

a homeless drunk, or a big blue overcoat

that cared about posture at six o’clock.

The whole city seemed to make no noise

as I saw him. I spent most of my days

alone, greeted the dogs. Or rather, make sure

the double doors to his bed were closed.

 

*

 

He reminded me of the value of cleanliness.

The homosexual part finally found a cove,

the place sunlight thought of lamps.

Gay men really appreciated occasional long

mornings and afternoons, withdrew

from the hours, things with no context.

The top floor of a hotel, too much empty time

to fill. Shaking a turquoise sea of pride.

Youth advanced to my feet. I meant gardening

my spine. There’s always someone bending

down. The global population kept bottles

of private drawings. Lovers—so neat

in the margin. On paper, he’s dressed.

Mostly a rental. The rest of fidelity, an ad.

 

*

 

As if everyone were or had a meat market.

The delusion of looking for someone

did not not exist. Invasion of the body, gently,

at 6:30. Probably no reason to

conclude on people like satellite dishes.

Idealistic, cerebral. I would be

living with him till his lock felt

rebuked. A city just floated around

love or success or a connection.

Glancing across the street at the very fact

of stillness. In the first month

in my solitude I made the mirror exact

blue swirls. I read sometimes for the possibility

that anxiety suggested a place.

 

*

 

The city seemed to know who lived alone

at every conceivable level. You looked for a space

to reinvent life. To return to a better being.

Some people sprawled on emptiness.

At night, the pleasure to imagine the perfect city

cast a strange light. I was scalloped.

I followed the pigeons. My deepest sorrow

was expensive in April. A room weeping

was used for storage because it’s cheaper

to ignore exhibitionism. Living in an open sea

of idealism. Decrepitude, part envy

in a wishful way. Gay life couldn’t teach you that.

I just knew the future was an eighteenth century.

 

*

Being aware of writing.

My lips like a wolf’s, mentioned a novel about love.

Suspicion, mainly a gay disease.

I should classify people as gossips, anger and armchairs.

I will convert a man to a tablecloth.

His hands looked very sad, a reminder of a finished story.

Shadows always intertwined how people felt when people loved and a                     boxing match.

The fir tree wasn’t looking for politics or humor.

What was assumed as the basic size was a growing fear.

On a leash, a sound couldn’t pursue its thinking.

Forgive me. I’m always trying.

A heart is going.

May a face give some dignity to my little lines.