When I’m low
I’m binge watching
the ticker tape of
closing credits only.
I don’t have to tell you, but
everything ends the same.
I pretend
I’m in the movies, but
just the scriptwriter,
just the sound guy,
better yet, fed up director
revelation left
on the cutting room floor.
When I’m low
sop ink up from paper,
backspace the subtitles,
reuse old taglines to the show.
That racket of anvils—
after lunch like Hannibal
sacking the score.
Hole up in wardrobe,
better yet, throw out
those costumes, rub out
my thumbprints then walk out
that door. Scrub graffiti off
the gargoyles, my address
from curbside, delete
all my profiles, text
both of my parents—
I renounce my tickets to the show.
When I’m low
host reunions in my apartment
where dead ancestors squat silent,
passing secrets in the living room,
something ‘bout
times before the internet,
but what it is
Grandpa won’t say.
You can hear him in
the woodshed, returning
digital back to video, cellulose
reels to flash lamps, canvas
back to cave walls—
drowning buffalo
in too many coats of paint.
