Nothing

After Bukowski nobody said:
“I wanted the whole world or nothing.”
In the post office I hear the mountains spring
up and down brown-blue slides
he weaver of water we have in the H2O
fish screech to taste consumption of water
in order of merit and the water is tears.
Fear wars over access to fresh water
De profundis like Israel’s grab for the rivers of Jordan.
listen to the lap lap lapping of the weedy Bollin
no longer firstly or secondly. we were there.
At night I speak, weep sadly with song,
whiskey and my sadness get so fucking overwhelming
that my heart slows-jumps: arrhythmia, water passes through eleven bodies before mine. That’s fine, by me. Water peeled of impurity. My glasses are of solid water. My feet draw patterns on the floor. Water becomes buttons to undress, slip-shod shoes polished up by water into patent leather wonders. A ticket all you need to escape, feelings easily doused with water. Sweet grapes attract the palate. We must wait for significance to grow like a vine. Others sell flowers outside graveyards and muster a vote at election time. Outside, a chapel of dark Jerusalem vines.

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