Eleven

She tells me

She enlightens me

Leans over me

 

Eleven

I hardly knew you

But now we are packaged

Like frozen dinners

 

Eleven

I never thought of you as a figure

I painted you in my sketch book

I’m only a corpse now

 

Eleven

You are on my tombstone

Two erect Ones

One beside each other

 

Eleven

On a football jersey

On an elephant’s back

Who has been faithful

one hundred percent

 

Eleven

Because its dark in this night

Because I’m a sentimental

Because I count the tiles down the wall

Because I cry myself to sleep

Because no one knows the pain of the twelves

 

Eleven

Because you are an escape from locks

Eleven

Because you are a test

Eleven

Because you are red and blue

Eleven

Because you are dead

 

Eleven

Because I hate you

Eleven

Because I overcame you

Eleven

Because you beat me

Eleven

Because you are the jungle in my nightmare

Eleven

Because you last for months

Eleven

Because they have no idea who I am

Eleven

Because I watch you go around in circles

 

Eleven

Because I want to be with you

Eleven

Because I know you through

Picture books

And Holy flowers

And table pieces

Through television

And undeclared magazine subscriptions

 

Twelve

Because you are me

Because you were my life

Because they know me there

Because they feed on me there

Because you were there

Because I was shot there

Because I met you there

Because I ate sweet bananas there

 

Twelve

Because of the view

Because of the time

Because of the water fountains

Because of the mystery

Because of the lost

 

Twelve

Because of the dozen

Because of the meal

Because of the day

Because of my sisters

Because of my brothers

And the pancakes they slapped each other with

And the pancakes they cracked skulls with

And the help they have given

On dark wintery nights

 

Eleven

Because you said so

Because it’s true

Because it’s me

Because that’s the way things are

As I crawl up into a ball

And wish for a tap

For a rest

That you and you and you

All understand

 

Eleven because at eleven times

twice and no one called plus one

No one gave a shit

A flying fuck

You didn’t even know

 

In fact

No one knew

Except the lamppost

That groped my leg

In my crossing dream

 

Eleven because you didn’t know

Nor care

perhaps

 

Twelve because you fucked me up the ass

And made me art and poetry

And that painful word that penetrates my world

You’ll never find it here today

 

 

 

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.07.27.23:42:00@NJ07430