retinitis pigmentosa

i often stay up much too late.
after eleven p.m. i become an anatomical genius.
sometimes a taxidermist.
sometimes a serial enucleator.
either way i stop being tempted.
i use blood and vitreous humor as finger paints.
after two a.m. i become a greedy apothecary.
i brew sickness from tea leaves.
i steal babies from their cribs.
the lack of eyes thrills me.
some things can't be found in a supermarket.
animal hides. the right kind of tea leaves.
the solitary thrill. eyes.
where do you get yours?

joyeux noel.

i get confused so easy these days
just trying to figure out the right things to say.
i used to think i was a genius but
i don't when to talk or when to shut up.
so here's a secret you never knew.
some late nights i stop being over you.
take it as a compliment, bien-aimée.
you're the sweetest heart and the brightest shade.

his mother doesn't want to get any more cats, she thinks it's too sad

he spends his time looking for dead animals.
in the woods behind his house.
once when he was little he found a bird.
it was late in the afternoon and the
sun still hadn't come out.
he'd never seen one up close before.
a dead body. a bird.
he poked at it with a twig.
crouched there beside it.
he picked it up in his hands and held
it against his chest until he could see
the bird move quietly with his heartbeat.
he wondered if it was alive again.
he didn't understand. it takes more
than a heartbeat to make something alive.
he put it down and stood there for a while.
"jordan? jordan!" he didn't understand.
why did he have to leave?
there wasn't anything more important than
standing here. holding his twig.
staring.

he still looks for dead animals.
in the woods behind his house.
a mouse maybe or a leopard frog
to hold up to his heart.
his hands become the same color
as its skin. nothing mourns.
there's nothing more important than
pretending it's alive again.

i talk to myself at night

hey, what are you looking at?
do you know what it's like?
what what's like?
being called, man.
called by what?
come on man, just listen.
i can't hear anything.
whale song. clear as day. come on, man.
i still don't hear it.
ah well. maybe it's just me.
hey, man —
what?
have you been having a lot of dreams lately?
yeah. it's flaring up again.
what are they like this time?
well sometimes they're really sad. but sometimes they're not. like sometimes they're really realistic. and then i'll look out the window and they'll call me.
call you?
yeah. telling me to come down to the sea. sometimes when i dream it's really realistic. like i'll be talking to you and then i'll look out the window and hear it on the wind. clear as day. calling my name in a way more beautiful than anything i've ever heard. whale song.

may cause marked drowsiness

i still remember fondly back when just looking
hurt so much. i never knew what i was
doing. now i just listen to unsentimental
records about birds and the snow.
i can hear the rain in the background.
the last presidential address. all my
professors telling me to make something
of myself. the words we always used to say to
each other coming out of other people's mouths.
there is a track called "love song."
it's 55 seconds of a music box
playing some tune i don't know.
and when it's over i want to hear more
but it's over.

咖啡haus: a true story (or: how a man from boston and his piano changed my life. http://www.myspace.com/thetumbledsea )

they say that music cures your pain.
like the kid playing the saxophone and
spinning in his socks across the wooden floor.
the best friends with frizzled hair and
alpaca hats who pluck their little ukeleles
like they can't afford guitars and don't care.
entire symphonies pouring out of one boy,
one voice, one pedal and one violin.
the guy tapping his conga drum and the
girl on the acoustic singing pop songs
that sounded good on the radio but will never
sound as good again after you hear them like this.

what they don't tell you is some things
hurt no matter what.
like the way singing duets makes me feel.
the way the point of my sternum hits
the uppermost vertebrae in my spine.
the children whose hands i'll never hold.
how i can't seem to make my friends smile
the way all my other friends can.
runaway cats, dead sleep, the hidden part
of myself that i forgot i can't show.
so i'll just sit here. i can't play the piano
but i can listen to how the strings sound
when they ring.

i think you're just taking this too seriously

hey man, sorry about that. i just got real
disoriented for a second there. yeah, no,
i'm fine. what were we talking about? right.
my ex. my ex-what? exactly. haha, i know
that's not what you meant. what did i mean?
sorry man, that was dumb. i shouldn't be
talking about this right now. i keep losing
it. you know man, just my vision keeps going
in and out. i already saw my doctor, she
told me there's nothing they can do. i keep
forgetting to focus. focus my eyes. and
when i cough i keep losing my grip. all these
things i keep when i'm sick. i can't hold on
to anything when i'm well. it feels like a
movie-set model of hell but at least i can feel it
so i don't want out. hey man, i'm real sorry about
that. what were we talking about?

two weeks and counting

sometimes sickness grabs you by the collar
throws you up against the wall and cracks
your sternum in two with his elbow. it takes
weeks to heal. all i can do is lay in bed
and think of my favorite things. friends.
windy summer days. pet cats.
books to read. red cars. holidays.
but sometimes we can't have all that. so we
take what we can get. friends.
the last days of autumn. a warm bed.
a new kind of piano. red flannel. two hours to sleep.
when i cough my sternum bucks back into
my spinal cord. i feel it when i put my
hand on my chest.