In the House of the Hangman 1250

I wake in the morning to find all the hotel room windows are made of glass. Gangs of men stand outside and stare. I sneak through a secret door in the bathroom to the front desk to request a late checkout. When I return to my room, I find that men have gone through all my belongings and left big wet yellow handprints of pee all over everything. I try to find a private place in the bathroom to change my clothes, only to find there’s a secretary sitting at a desk, typing behind the toilet. We are feral children, living in abandoned tunneled concrete underground. The surface = danger. The bits of garbage, our remaindered archaeologies, are precious to us and we arrange them with care, treat them as artifacts. Suddenly, there’s an unmarked van on the surface come to rescue us. Half of us move half of our fractured crockery, our rusted pipes, our cracked plastic up to the surface. The other half will come the next day. At night the tunnels and rooms collapse while we wait. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. I woke up with a heavy stone in my chest. The sea, its strange shores and incandescent glow of planets low in the sky, close to earth, for hours or minutes, come together and Opherion, Orpheus, the underworld all become visible, they’ve made holes in our shirts, dulled our skin and breath, taken away our breath. “Look up now, weike wreche, and see what thou arte … swink and swete in al that thou canst and mayst, for to gete thee a trewe knowyng and a feling of thiself as thou arte.” (Cloud of Unknowing). “I am a worm and no man.” Which means, Nicola, that you get to regenerate when you’re cut in half! Let “things be what they are, sort of” again. There’s nothing more to do “against the winter cold and futility” than preserve fruit, which is “a human thing, and intelligent as well.” Essentially, we’re doing things in the face of our inevitable death, and we’re doing them because that’s what we do. The poem finishes with two turns that punctuate the overall philosophy, the first a threat to a movie theater patron who has to be “flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him,” the other a faux-inspirational salute to the reader, encouraging us to “go out there / and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too,” before closing with the joke, “Look out! There’s a big one. . .” Mercury retrograde, even if you don’t exist and it’s just my general awkwardness still with my touchscreen, I just deleted a bunch of numbers in my phone and a text from Gen Isis that I didn’t realize was hers. Anyhoo, also, if you’re going to be at AWP, we should have each other’s numbers so PM your cells. That sounds so cool and biological: “cool brown / snow (saxophone) / falling on my tow”: “Oh flower of water’s rent”: “walk over me / I”: “Autumn-Time, Wind and the Planet Pluto”: “I bathe me anonymous”: We are always on top of the belvederes charming the birds / And your shoulders and arms at night, a successful branch of my favorite coaches, each in the form of / Sparks we can do quickly / A man who leads himself in his room, when we bent glass sculptures sigh / Sharp holes in your bed / Deer through the hole in the ash can be seen in the glade Kashima / Without looking at the roots of the heavy air attack of the locomotives / Report a jungle earn died / All inputs and blue serpents Be in the Jacinths / Then they left and rotate crops thread / Each night, a person who can not understand that there are indications / This is the first single from the packing cases and are amazed at his home / The corridors and stairs to her room / Stairs going to be out of date / This leads to a sudden, in a public square in the mill by stretching / The appearance of swans with wings spread balustrades / If they cut the interior / But all open to the sound of feet, move to the contents of the drawers / Ice trays and drawers drawers drawers bread and wine soap drawer / Meat tray with hair hands full / Without turning around the back of the chest exposed / You hold us back round our Smile / And enjoy the views /Under the veil of a woman we never see happy people I loved it. It’s the events we lumpen / struggle agro-crop to / imagine the woops of / primordial density perturbation / or instant class consciousness / you know sea all swelly / of a sudden / … / where did anything come from / … / we in this y’all / crap thrown fast from … Yet as Elisa Lam lay floating in a hotel water tank, decomposing without the preservative assistance of the formaldehyde in Damien Hirst’s “The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living”, guests at the hotel drank her fluids. And “in a matter of seconds, the earth opened under Jeff Bush’s bedroom and swallowed him up. About the only thing left was the TV cable running down into the hole.”

[Note: For Lee Ann Roripaugh and Arielle Guy and Anastasia Hager … Sources: Lee Ann Roripaugh, FB posts, 1 Mar 013; Arielle Guy, “We Create Our Own Shadows”, at Dharma Not Drama, 1 Mar 013; Nicola Masciandaro, FB post and comment, 1 Mar 013; JBR, FB comment, 1 Mar 013; Jason Bredle, and John Ashbery, as quoted in Bredle’s “Jason Bredle on John Ashbery’s ‘My Philosophy of Life’”, at Voltage, 21 Jan 013; Arielle Guy, FB post, 1 Mar 013; Joseph Ceravolo, as quoted in John Coletti, “Ceravolo”, at Jacket2, 1 Mar 013; André Breton, “The Postman Cheval”, English version at Poemhunter, thrown thru a dozen non-Latin-alphabet languages via Google Translate then lightly edited; Stephen Collis, “from The Primordial Density Perturbation”, at Tinfish Press; Alicia Eler and Kate Durbin, “The Teen-Girl Tumblr Aesthetic”, at Hyperallergic, 1 Mar 013; JBR; bit from an article about a Florida sinkhole, as quoted in Hazel Sullivan, FB post, 1 Mar 013]

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