LIZ HILDRETH

WORKAHOLIC

My job is not clean,
I never said it was.

My favorite part is slipping
into my silky hazmat suit
and reading as far as I can get
in one night.

Chapter 14.

The link of the fictional pig
to the human brain
and its many parts of waiting
in hay, eternity, shopping,
failure, abjection, TV, Ferris wheels,
complaining about haircuts,
half-listening.

Here’s a word.
Here’s another.

They won’t save you.

They’re not related.

But if you’re psychotic
or if you talk long enough,
they are.

That’s my job,
I’m telling you about.

It’s dirty and sometimes
my heart aches so badly
it’s like a metaphor
showing its ass to a dog
except I can’t show it
and I didn’t write that,
Mary Gaitskill did,
but not exactly that.

Sometimes I have a hole
in my organ and it makes me
sound all crazy
is how I would describe it.

I’ve never known
how to play to my strengths,
the biggest of which is being
not that big.

If I’m ever trapped on a ship,
I’ll be able to sleep anywhere
and need so little.

But I won’t sleep.
I’ll be working.
 
 
 
 

LANDING STRIP

I wake up
it’s all I have
to create things
and watch them
fall into disrepair
the blurry masticated
better-to-drive-you
to-the-hospital-with
let’s say I live
let’s say lots of things
because it feels hot
to say them
like when artifice
gets into the guts
of your life
before you can lead it
forget it some days
i wish i were
my own wife
so I could be
washed over in waves
of adoration
and effusiveness
of fun and funny
and dancing and die
and get a divorce
between vicious
swings of laughter
O don’t worry
I left
but i disconnected
lucifer
his electrical purr
of poetic flurry
it’s been years
since i imploded
3 oz of Duralex
on the linoleum
broke the chimney
in one sitting
it’s the power
of duo sumos
I promise
i will always
save you
pills of invisibility
never would I
deny my species
dying out
in snowy staggers
 
 
 
 



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