01
Remember those little ducklings?
Blue Dawn on TV,
except a bigger ocean than my sink,
summoned to ungrease the world.
02
Cut monstera like a sermon,
node, node, node,
a logic of joints and mercy.
03
Wash each severed stem
as if injury was dirt,
as if foam could persuade it
that it has not been abandoned.
04
I watch the sap bead up,
milk of the willing,
truth that costs you something.
Silence is still possible.
I can put down the knife
and pretend the vine is not choking.
05
Some days silence is too loud.
The body carries a courthouse,
every room under oath.
Maybe my mouth is the
original open wound
the judge could finally seal.
06
A cock for Asclepius.
A dirty joke philosophy cannot quit!
The rooster of morning lodged in the throat
next to the hemlock.
07
Pay it, Socrates said.
The final truth: not doctrine,
but a bill for care.
Don’t neglect the living
while you’re busy being right.
08
I live in a high-rise
built out of my ruins.
The floors are named for boys
and family I cannot mention
without an elevator break
09
I still want rebirth.
Kill the ego and wash
the cuttings,
remove our grease.
10
Bring me to the monstera,
let it decide,
not accuse,
whether my wounds become roots.
11
When I go,
I hope my friends make a mess out of it.
Love me until they can’t stay sober.
12
I hope the ruins in my floor,
in my walls,
those who are in
my glasses,
my cups,
my vases,
can let me be finished.
13
Decompose my tower, it’s
all blood not ivory.
14
My last words,
if you remember them,
let them be like a rooster
or a dish of lavender soap.
15
Crito—don’t forget.
16
Put the cuttings in water,
and give them to my friends.