[In the film, the man’s asleep]
In the film, the man’s asleep
keeps on sleeping
never seems to wake.
His twitching & small movements
keep us
from thinking he is dead.
As a child, I lived
in my bed, given to
every illness. If you believe it,
one fall I shook and quaked:
my feet a fever
my knees a fervor
my hips an aching sway
my arms akimbo
my shoulders shimmies
my elbows shudders
unable to stay myself
my brain afire
haloed in heat
like some saint my mother
saw seven days a week
attending mass, her sacrifice
to see me well: illness,
like God, inevitable.
My sickness named
for St. Vitus,
who was boiled
alive in oil. The torture
making his body
writhe itself to heaven.
But I wonder, still,
was he good
at dancing?
[I am almost always born]
Anymore
I am always almost
born. I sleep.
I eat. I smoke
a cigarette. Pretend
to paint again,
become an
automaton just like
I’ve always wanted.
For a quarter,
the machine will
give you
eight separate prints.
I’ll autograph them
even if they aren’t
me. What I mean
is I’m genuinely
impersonal. You see,
the sickly child grows up.
I’ve got to tell it now,
while I still remember.
How I’ve made it
up.
This story
is the story; it doesn’t
change. It imprints itself
like ink across
a page.
The smudgings,
the error—the most beautiful
parts, the ones I keep
revising.