Construction

Somewhere in your construction
I am sitting beneath a hanging light and screaming
every piercing affection, shaking
your windows with each roar.

The blue wires that
dangled from your generator have been severed
and replaced. A new electricity flows through them, a current that forces
me beneath the waves
and pulls me out pale and bloated at the foot of the shoreline.

I died inside your ocean and lived
along your beaches
with a metal detector leading the way.
I only found pyrite and used forks still dripping
with the red remains of watermelon.
There are still holes
weeping in your walls
where I hammered nails and made an art display
for every critic to “ooh” and “aah” at.

My renovations will be replaced
by a new architect after
a new owner gets
a new mortgage,
but if these walls could talk,
they’d still be moaning my name.

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Why You Should Always Wear Sandals to the Beach

When you and I were walking to the beach
You forgot to tell me the pavement was
Soaked with LSD. I should have worn shoes.
Now I’m on this beach and I’m tripping balls.
You look like a dragon with a crown on.
Maybe I’ve just watched too much game of thrones
Lately, which explains why I’m seeing that.
“Khaleesi!” I shout, as everyone stares
In pure disbelief while I do the worm
On the hot sand, fully nude and sobbing.

Artifacts

Don’t bury me in a coffin.
I want my remains tucked sweetly
into a sarcophagus
deep in the catacombs of the Sphinx
with a glass of warm milk on my nightstand.
Let the pharaohs strip me down and tear
My skin and muscle until I am no more
Than a skeleton wrapped in cloth.
Gouge my eyes and drop them
Into a mason jar filled with lemonade
For all I care
A mummy needs no eyes.

I once found myself dressed
as an archaeologist
while sitting on the subway,
jotting in a notepad every artifact I found
in my apartment
with my eyes shadowed
by a sand-caked pith helmet. You left me
a seashell and thirty strands of hair
for me to find when I’d make my bed in the morning.

Today I saw a cardinal perched
On a pine branch.
Her wings were clipped
like the coupons my mother used to hoard when we lived without utilities.
A gust of wind sent her spilling over the edge
plummeting to the surface like a meteor,
a tail of cosmic dust
following her as she crashed
into the rose bush and made love to its thorns.

When it’s my time to exit,
treat me like I treated the cardinal.
Snap my neck
to put me out of my misery,
and on the day of my funeral,
dress me in my best suit and dye
my hair brown again.
Instead of a coffin
prop my corpse up in a chair
atop a dunk tank
and deliver my eulogy as adolescents pelt bean bags
at a bullseye/slash/button that will drop me
into the water.

When you approach the surface
and pull me from beneath
drag me to the pyramids and take me to the tombs.

But when the pharaohs strip me down
don’t let them take my teeth.
They’ve always been the only thing
that covered up
my wounds.