Trapdoor Fucking Exit, Part 5

*

Wind against the windows
sounds like Sam Prekop singing,
“bring my car I fee-eel
to smash it.” Who knows
what that means,
but it’s fun to say
                     over & over
and watch the rain
separate against telephone wire
even though it’s not raining
not now at least
not here. It’s raining
in New Orleans, everyone
is looking for a place
to hide. A siren outside
              that doesn’t sound
                      like a siren
                  muffled by rain
            that is not rain
              it’s the sound
                      of the record
                  that’s over
              but still spinning.

Bring my life I feel
to smash it. And then
glue the shards together
like a Christian Marclay record.
This song’s called “One Thousand Cycles”
and at least the songs are making
their way into the poem
since they’ve made their way
into me, now my life is cluttered
by all the shit I’m trying
to lay out here and smash to bits.

Over Canal Street it’s raining
glass over Market Street
but not over Lakeshore
and all the yuppies leaving
Albertson’s leaving Noah’s
are happy for it. And I am too
though not happy enough
to leave my apartment,
to leave this table beneath a window.
I can see tomorrow morning
like a hill in the distance,
the confetti blue sky
brushing against it.
And when it arrives
I will accomplish that day
                      without failure
              without flourish.

*

Hasn’t the sky
been mentioned enough?
It’s still out there looming
no trapdoor fucking exit.
But what of that more distant
reality that disappears
when described? It feels
like I haven’t talked
to anyone today except
the guy at work changing
light fixtures. He asked me
where he could find a glass
of water. And I showed him.
You can’t think your way
out of some situations.
I shouldn’t be afraid
of initiating small talk.
I shouldn’t be afraid
of a lot of things.
I’m fickle and I brag
about it. I wish I could type
words over these words
so you couldn’t read
the boring parts, but leave
what I like and hope
that you will too: the end
should be like that: some-
thing we both can enjoy.
And so I give you
my story, the one
I’ve been telling myself.
It is devoted to the possible.