I am Your Youngest Poet, and Fill Your Bed With Ink
No more trying to summon the spirit animal which only leads to nights
staring at the Brooklyn Bridge, palms upturned reluctantly. We were all wolves
in a past life, and have forgotten our pack animal ways. No more telephone calls
to a disconnected telephone; if I set out with an incorrect map it’s because
I’ve already built the ship, like you, I’m afraid someone will come to my door
and explain the facts of my life. I don’t want to hear it. Last night on the television
two ghost hunters in Missouri tracked an animal demon to an abandoned warehouse
and laid a trap. It burst through the ceiling like a flaming planet
and crushed them. Some things don’t want to be found. Some things are like
the lame wolf: injured and dying it becomes human. Now it wears a bowtie.
Now it moves to New York and opens an Italian restaurant, never phones home.
If the wolves enter the dream, let them. Kyle says it’s only a matter of time.
Before I push you through ink and digit. Before another episode where the demon
moves on, and the desires that wake me at night won’t anymore. No more wolves dying
on the page. No more taking inventory of what is lost. The car sitting in the driveway
covered in snow will be just that.