Virus

November’s bright night teeth soak

through cavitied yellow blinds

while I dance pockmarked by sterile moonlight.

Watch the cream colored spiders scurry

around the room whenever the wind blows.

I will stay awake until the blood in the corners

of my eyes begins to spread, drowning the white

in crimson pouring out of existing cracks

until the whole oval is the same color as the box

of marlboros I light on fire even though my tonsils

are swollen to the size of golfballs.

Irises engorged now, feet numb

from stepping in ground up aspirin capsules,

I call Doctor Gunn, crooked optometrist

but really a Jim of all trades, yell and yabber

about Casimir Pulaski, Siam, frigid out there eh,

there’s a bar in Berlin inhabited by tropical birds,

Georgia O'Keeffe, blood leaking out of my pores,

Buck Mulligan eating steak on the subway, the whole bit.

Says he's in Duluth, thoroughly frightful business

with an Aunt and a raccoon, you understand,

call me back Saturday, November is nasty on the ticker,

flu shots, deductible went up, multivitamins, Ativan.

Hang up, open the windows, rip the radiator from the wall,

drink a tall glass of late autumn virus, and I turn twenty two

covered in snow and citrine fluorescent light.