Direct Imperative To You, the Person Reading, or Don't Tell Mr. Singh I was Bleeding on the Porch
i got myself into this mistake of a brain and you've got to get me out. if i try hard enough i could probably replace one common sense with another. like you could unravel me into a pile of snakes tasting air, i could stop framing people like you into gold. but i am always loving people why do i do that? the very second we met on friday a car alarm sounded in the alley. that must have been the warning so why didn't you remind me? the rest of the weekend a kettle boiled underneath me but you let the metal burn — could only hear this dim hum you mistook for light bulbs in my skull. speaking of my skull and all that glass i have realized each light is a thought you need to bash out of me. do you understand that i'm so painfully prescient of the future ache that my fingertips have voted numb? with this letter to you in my mouth i open the trunk to my car. i smash my head in there good and hard but it's all nothing without an extra hand. i stare at the house i rent from mr. singh and i can see his punjabi beard get as thin as my patience. to be responsible for any heart besides your own is a bloody mistake but if you could just push me — well the steps to the place seem sharp enough.
John Mortara is a haywire refrigerator in Northampton, Massachusetts. he operates voicemailpoems.org. his website is johnmortara.com. his new collection 'some planet' is forthcoming with YesYes Books. he is poet laureate of FEELING VERY UNCOMFORTABLE.