I’ve said the words so many times that they’ve stopped being words.
They are hunks of sounds and I am a sputtering chimpanzee.
I bite an apple, walk in a circle,
and gallop side ways and hunched, hands and feet,
into the unlit kitchen
in the basement of a church.
5 stories above me kids sit
in a circle resurrecting christ,
dimmed yellow light. They are sad
and practice kissing.
“This is your spiritual calling.
I am here to save you.”
A car passes the corner I saw a man with tattoos on his back
punch another guy in the mouth.
People filmed it on their cellphones.
Putting streamers around me and
shaking my hand,
you say, “you did it.
You found me.
I’ve been waiting for you.”
And you give me a glossy neon flyer
and I fold it and put it in my pocket.
“I feel fucked”
I text you. I tell you
your friend is pretty.
A sculpture is the space
the marble doesn’t take up.
The piano fades,
your singing goes away.
There are only so many notes.
There’s only so much to say.
“I feel fucked.”