Autobiography
by Mitchell Glazier
The boy whose nose inspired a thousand surgeries Coddles rosemary in the flowing scrolls of his beard. A halo of plump gnats keep well Their steady altitude of Holiness over him. Divisible, the father goes Like a plodding donkey, mustard-lipped And elliptical. Madness adores repeating. There-there, okey-dokey. Your birth, my hobby. Dress, they will soon be here. Voices of birth are uneven, even along The croaking rivulets of wounds. Night munches And the salads are composed expertly: Red wine vinegar, squeeze of lemon, Mayonnaise folded in the care of anchovy. A pair of monks begin singing, the older reading The hymn behind the younger With a careful arm draped, meaning possession. This is the shape I’ve chosen, having lived with Art For a little less than three green bean cans And a slutish, mole-pocked bingo deck. Love alters the shooting range. You console him with grilled peach toast points. My dead teacher washed sheep-studded Nails in the blood of cows watching trains go by. This is why I buy pictures — How marvelous to see the cars. That I turned out to be living Well, and concealing the lice of old friends. Romance, I was the fatty heart locket At the antique store knotted among copper pony coats. There is a letter kept in a music box there So passionate in its skill. It can kill. Demon butterfly feet catch in mud-honey. Blond hair falls out of the seashell. And when I woke I knew How to pick the organ clean as the throat of an Elvis doll. A crotch of mint makes the Heir come near What the world will do.
