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I thought my hair was burning through my scalp I thought my brain was blistering
You’re asked what you do you name a profession you’re asked who you are your answer is the same
One day you can’t remember what it is that you do, exactly and you’ve forgotten your name
I thought it was high blood pressure; I thought it was caffeine; I thought I was eating the wrong part of the plant I thought I was dying
But for years you’ve spread your wares sold your self
In a room, always the same room where people, always the same people have looked past you and swung their feet counted missing ceiling tiles and admired their new shoes taken calls eaten lunch raised families and died while you’ve pitched them, tried to sell them your dry mouth and your broken laughter
I thought I would go crazy from the sound of my heart I thought I would choke on the dust in my mouth I thought I would drown in the blood from my smile
So I shaved my head and I ate only fallen fruit I gave up coffee and I walked aerobically I checked my carotid pulse and I searched for my third eye
And now detoxified and clarified purified and simplified what I understood (breathing from my solar plexus, mouthing my mantra, mixing blood with dust for a palliative mud seeing with all my eyes)
Was that I couldn’t seem to remember what it was that I did, exactly and I had forgotten my name |
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This poem probably appeared in country CONNECTIONS. I'm sure that I did a public reading of a slightly different version at a restaurant on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles and that it was raucously received because the room was full of actors. For some reason they identified with a few of the images. Peculiar.—B.L. |
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