2,363 Readings

Sweet Reader (There Is Much I Want to Accomplish Since My Month-Long David Lynch Film Marathon, So Kindly Pull Up a Chair),

Hold still while I taser you with a heraldic
                                                        dwarf in a ring of fire, or the aerial assault
                            of piss on a dry dirt road after a pot of coffee. Sit back
while I drill calm holes in your skull,
                                          then buy you breakfast every day for seven years,
                            the two of us hunched in a booth at Bob’s Big Boy,
where you’ll have what I’m having—
                                                        a chocolate milkshake and four, five, six links
                            of sausage. You never leave a tip, reader. Do you prefer to stare
at the Formica like a lead-poisoned child?
                                          Or, watch your shake thin in its incongruous
                            goblet while you cover the napkins with childhood phobias
in green ink? You, who invite me to cut
                                                        and filter and scramble your nighttime screams—
                            your balled hands a clump of Band-Aids in a health club shower;
the panther crouching in the brush of your
                                          family photograph—until you wake up one morning
                            and plant the memory of your terrible grandmother
in a pot beside the kitchen sink, where she
                                                        sprouts and force-feeds you anchovies again.
                            The house is stuffed with plastic lampshades.
There are carnivorous fish blowing bubbles
                                                                      in a tank. Throw your last twenty dollars
                            into a shopping mall fountain. Let your secret selves
embrace like brain-damaged boxers in the ring,
                                                             as we enter the chlorinated water together,
                            the coins of all your drowned wishes shifting
like oxidized treasure beneath our feet.

Posted 03/17/09
Books by Kara Candito
Comments (0)