The Calendar Hung Itself

Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head? And does he sing to

you incessantly from the place between your bed and wall? Does he walk around all day at

school with his feet inside your shoes? Looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with

you. Does he know that place below your neck that is your favorite to be touched and does he cry

through broken sentences like I love you far too much? Does he lay awake listening to your

breath? Worried that you smoke too many cigarettes. Is he coughing now on a bathroom floor?

For every speck of tile there are a thousand more that you won't ever see but most hold inside

yourself eternally. I drug your ghost across the country and we plotted out my death. In every

city, memories would whisper, Here is where you rest. I was determined in Chicago but I dug

my teeth into my knees and I settled for a telephone and sang into your machine. You are my

sunshine, my only sunshine I kissed a girl with a broken jaw that her father gave to her. She

had eyes bright enough to burn me. They reminded me of yours. In a story told she was a little

girl in a red-rouge, sun-bruised field and there were rows of ripe tomatoes where a secret was

concealed. And it rose like thunder, clapped under our hands. And it stretched for centuries to a

diary entry's end where I wrote, You make me happy when the skies are gray You make me

happy the skies are gray and gray and gray. Well the clock's heart it hangs inside its open

chest with its hands stretched towards the calendar hanging itself but I will not weep for those

dying days. For all the ones who have left there are a few that stayed. And they found me here

and pulled me from the grass where I was laid.










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