“The problem of America is my body.”—Alice Notley
Every gustatory pleasure
is a field
that will one day fail
to provide pasture.
Or
I’m worried
about
my belly fat again,
home alone every night,
dusting,
doing dishes,
my 31st winter.
Noisier the leaves
seem to get
the deeper into November
one goes,
muddier the sun.
Suddenly under-
dreaming
my days away,
all worthwhile interests
waning,
my favorite book
merely
the girl with the best breasts
in the neighborhood,
the only poem
that tempts me
her boyfriend
working out in his apartment
in the gloaming’s half-light,
his phosphorescent 6 pack abs.
Insomnia’s eternity,
glutton for drudgery,
hours later I’m up
before dawn,
thinking about the sign
outside my favorite taqueria
that reads
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem;
the way the shards of afternoon
sun seem
to make it glow
neon-bright.
Masticatingly,
I sit at my corner table for hours,
ignoring the herds of cars and buses
that pass by and pass on.
Outside Los Gorditos this afternoon
the problem of America is my body
but inside I am swallowing
so many different poisons
at such breakneck speed
as to actualize myself
invincible.
Then it matters little
how important my mouth is
to my throat, my lips
to my gums, the charbroil-seared
sound of my voice
to my belly’s girth.
Walking home at dark,
noisier the leaves seem to get
with each step.
And pockmarked and pristine,
looming larger and larger,
the moon.
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