May 2015 - Comments Off

Phoebe Jordan-Reilly

With Our Special Guest, Steve Buscemi

Steve Buscemi is in rare spirits today
Steve Buscemi is a Brooklyn boy
With taffy eyes and dumpling skin today
I am in an aromatherapy shop
With Steve Buscemi today
And we have been drifting and
We are so cultured
We are brown bag cartographers
Consumerist ethnographers today

Steve Buscemi, we are standing in the
Essential oil section, I say
And you are dripping eucalyptus into your
Worldly ears, you’re a prophet, Steve Buscemi
I have your face in a heart locket, Steve Buscemi
Please: can you tell me how to heal, I say
If I wrap myself under your collar
Can you remind me
How to resign myself to infinity, Steve Buscemi

Steve Buscemi is closing off
Steve Buscemi is inching away, he is in aromatic
Panic, he is glistening
With ochre glaze and closed-captioning
Phrase, and he feels betrayed,
He’ll buy me anything I want, he supplicates,
He found otter milk soap, it smells like snow
Please, he’ll fill my arms with things that smell like home
He’ll wreath my neck with rocks to keep me safe, says Steve Buscemi

But I want to know, Steve Buscemi
Do you know the scent of God, Steve Buscemi
Are you gripped with the absurd
Are you wrapped in vines, do you ache
With your duty to mankind, we
Are slipping, we are bruising something
Hidden, can you share your philosophy
Can you rip out my mentality
Please stop crying, please stop screaming, Steve Buscemi

Steve Buscemi is losing his shit in the incense
Section, his teeth are stripped and streaming
You’re crazy, he tells me, is this a fucking
Joke to you, you’ve felled me
His hands are jittering into time holes
Steve Buscemi has lost track of himself, Steve
Buscemi is knocking everything off the shelves
He’s started an electrical fire, he’s burning sage

Steve Buscemi and I are set ablaze
In the aromatherapy shop today
He’s completely snapped and it’s my fault, I’m afraid
And I hear him howling but I’m uplifted and I have
Shifted, my mouth is full of jasmine smoke
We will be relics of an open day
Steve Buscemi I know you’re hurting
I can hear your flesh crackling but Steve Buscemi
Our ash smells so good.

Rooms

Rooms from Katie Foster on Vimeo.

Published by: in Issue 1: Fall 2014, Poetry, Volume 71

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