
Ennui (1987)
Dusty flowers, shades of oatmeal, fluttering to ash, slipping from fingertip to fingertip. Could I live with the absinthe taste of you forever?
Coleridge wrote poetry laced with opium, narcotic, nodding off to Dali’s melting world. I’ve had my fill, pissed in cups, It’s all a drug.
Five years old, discovering bird calls, my mother playing the piano in the shadows. Bird calls and the color green and Bach etudes. My euphoria.
I’ve got to get out of Miami, such a chore to feed oneself. Butter, eggs, milk, bread. Wine, too. And cheese. Dreaming about food, having counted the pennies and seen they were not enough.
Shoot me through a tube of toothpaste, I come out smelling minty and fresh, admiring your teeth and fretting over your cavities.
This girl’s mouth looks like a mine field.
Our brothers are home from Vietnam now, and the things they say they saw… We did it. And we had it done to us. Oh fuck, Oh god.
I ran through New Orleans once, stole a purse in a park, bought food. And drugs. Had sex with a short-haired blond, body as hard as a jet fighter plane. Told myself “I will always remember this.” I was wrong.
It’s 1987, and I want to have a baby. But no baby wants to have me.






