They said a dog in a crate feels safe, and my cave is a scatterbrained dwelling with a quiet guitar.
If I was Alice in Wonderland, I would fill it up and cross from girl to dog to feet out the window, and then I might be grateful for a kitchen with no pots and pans, but maybe wondering what I’d meant to do with rolls of
beeswax, and Sparkle Horse is still there, in his medieval tankard hot tub, and can you get the smudges off my glass with the ink? STABBED
IN THE STOMACH WITH A SHARP KNIFE LIKE A NINJA SWORD, that’s what the sign says, thou shalt not pass or rip it off the wall when my shoulder can’t
fit and he’s screaming SEA MONSTER SEA MONSTER so I laugh, “smoke me out, old man,”
and come back into my body and the only takeaway Is what do
a fishing hook, a marionette, and a queimada pot have in common or which one does not belong until I look in the mirror and laugh, ‘there’s your answer,’
and frogs defrost alive like the time I thought I lost my feet to the snow and all the beer going down warm wouldn’t kill the furor of the burning back to life like the starfish pulled their arms off;
maybe they heard my joke about amputees in Weight Watchers, the one I told to my quiet guitar like a Thunderbird car drenched in nostalgia but mostly gone, like anything, really, or my beat up records; they must’ve been a raging lover, scratched as they are–
is that it, all the love dashes your music, makes it repeat itself: makes sense, senility, now, all the ardor, now all the stories that come again and again, saying, once, I was a virgin with a lot of new material. Once, I had a loud guitar, and I filled up my cage.