My body is a torn mattress,
Disheveled throbbing place
For the comings and goings
Of loveless transients.
The whole of me
Is a unfinished room
Filled with dank breath
Escaping in gasp to nowhere.
Before completely objective mirrors
I have shot myself with my eyes,
But death refused my advances.
I have walked on my walks each night
Through strange landscapes in my head.
I have brushed my teeth with orange peel,
Iced with cold blood from the dripping faucets.
My face is covered with maps of dead nations;
My hair is lettered with frying ragweed.
Bitter raisins drip haphazardly from my nostrils
Wile schools of glowing minnows swim from my mouth.
The nipples of my breast are sun-browned cockleburrs;
Long-forgotten Indian tribes fight battles on my chest
Unaware of the sunken ships rotting in my stomach.
My legs are charred remains of burned cypress tress;
My feet are covered with moss from bayous, flowing across my floor.
I can’t go out anymore.
I shall sit on my ceiling.
Would you wear my eyes?

Bob Kaufman

Category: Healing,