Charles Borkhuis
NOTHING PERSONAL
pronouns like us
appear as interchangeable
pebbles in a stream
the I-you-he-she-me of it
nodding in mirror-rhythm
with our multiples
maybe I’ve been listening too long
to your miniature black hole of a head
or your heart only two letters away
that leaves a loose end like me
stumbling down an endless corridor
of on-off switches
nothing personal you understand
you can have the facts
I’ll take the rest to the coffin thanks
so much for your anti-virus protector
I’ve found a smooth stone on the road
after about a million years underwater
not the one with the fossil on its back
but the other worthless one in my pocket
it’s an all or nothing situation
but inside the all there’s plenty of nothing
and inside the nothing there’s the rest of us
breathing through straws
BALLOON BOY
Not far from the truth
but more precisely
a standing-to-the-side-of
watching leaves
blowing through a grassy shadow
the dark doubled by a thread
a child’s balloon-head is pulled
through the sky on a string
a writer the size of an ant
runs across a football field
shouting into a megaphone
“he’s dead . . . he’s dead”
but it’s too late
I’m long gone
from this place
FLOATING SOCKET
at home in the floating
socket mouthing-off
to the residue
to the vast unnamable
collecting around
this soft tissue
too tight a fit for two
I could do with a grace note
to sing us through
the paradox
of two and pierce
the skin just so
(don’t worry
you won’t feel a thing)
but of course I always do
it’s the slow grinding of a stone
wheel near my right ear
as if to say
I’ll dig you a treasure
if you dig me a grave
there at the glimmer of forking paths
we’ll lie down together
and show them
what we’re made of
THE TALKING CURE
talk to the lines in your face
talk to the pavement at noon
talk to the frayed edges of the rope
talk to the wall
talk to your obscure object of desire
talk to the limits of the code
talk to your dog
talk to the datedness of the present
talk to the future that never arrived
talk to the meat you are about to eat
talk to the homeless in their boxes
talk to your priest who weighs your sins
talk to your shrink who listens and takes notes
talk to the dead who don’t talk back
talk to your money
talk to your loved one
talk to the phone
talk to the words in the sentence
talk to yourself in passing
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
the sign said it all
the enormous
space between particles
and people
what angle broken off inside
a plastic baby’s head
pulled from the sand
the opening and closing
of the mouth
each word draws a blank
before and after itself
which intimates the distance
necessary for intimacy
the fragment’s open window
a procession of clouds passes
from tongue to mountain top
a lifetime of loose strings
come to dance
pronouns like us
appear as interchangeable
pebbles in a stream
the I-you-he-she-me of it
nodding in mirror-rhythm
with our multiples
maybe I’ve been listening too long
to your miniature black hole of a head
or your heart only two letters away
that leaves a loose end like me
stumbling down an endless corridor
of on-off switches
nothing personal you understand
you can have the facts
I’ll take the rest to the coffin thanks
so much for your anti-virus protector
I’ve found a smooth stone on the road
after about a million years underwater
not the one with the fossil on its back
but the other worthless one in my pocket
it’s an all or nothing situation
but inside the all there’s plenty of nothing
and inside the nothing there’s the rest of us
breathing through straws
BALLOON BOY
Not far from the truth
but more precisely
a standing-to-the-side-of
watching leaves
blowing through a grassy shadow
the dark doubled by a thread
a child’s balloon-head is pulled
through the sky on a string
a writer the size of an ant
runs across a football field
shouting into a megaphone
“he’s dead . . . he’s dead”
but it’s too late
I’m long gone
from this place
FLOATING SOCKET
at home in the floating
socket mouthing-off
to the residue
to the vast unnamable
collecting around
this soft tissue
too tight a fit for two
I could do with a grace note
to sing us through
the paradox
of two and pierce
the skin just so
(don’t worry
you won’t feel a thing)
but of course I always do
it’s the slow grinding of a stone
wheel near my right ear
as if to say
I’ll dig you a treasure
if you dig me a grave
there at the glimmer of forking paths
we’ll lie down together
and show them
what we’re made of
THE TALKING CURE
talk to the lines in your face
talk to the pavement at noon
talk to the frayed edges of the rope
talk to the wall
talk to your obscure object of desire
talk to the limits of the code
talk to your dog
talk to the datedness of the present
talk to the future that never arrived
talk to the meat you are about to eat
talk to the homeless in their boxes
talk to your priest who weighs your sins
talk to your shrink who listens and takes notes
talk to the dead who don’t talk back
talk to your money
talk to your loved one
talk to the phone
talk to the words in the sentence
talk to yourself in passing
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
the sign said it all
the enormous
space between particles
and people
what angle broken off inside
a plastic baby’s head
pulled from the sand
the opening and closing
of the mouth
each word draws a blank
before and after itself
which intimates the distance
necessary for intimacy
the fragment’s open window
a procession of clouds passes
from tongue to mountain top
a lifetime of loose strings
come to dance