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.