Mix Tape to Be Brought to Her in Rehab
Black lacquered circle & the sound coaxed
is conjuring The Boat of Ra Little Darling
then again double doors. You will sign in:
Maxell against the light. Immense are the tears
Wildly Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want,
Visiting hours— in the tv room the Haldol reigns.
turned thank God to pastel vapor by Miami Vice.
of Earl Grey, the two black turtlenecks.
Brownsville Girl—down here even the swap meets
in limbo waiting for the dice to roll.
at your hands. More doors, double doors & triple,
giving way to rooms, the upturned car, the notebooks
troubled minutes, coda Robert Johnson. Stones on my
& she holds it in her upturned palm. From the bedside
from the diamond to rest within the acetate glimmer,
the agon & the joys commingling. Nina Simone
is conjuring The Boat of Ra Little Darling
from a long cold lonely winter, though outside
it is August & is not all right. Double doors,
then again double doors. You will sign in:
& they’ll rifle your pack of oranges & candy bars,
pry open the plastic case & hold the gray
Maxell against the light. Immense are the tears
of Levi Stubbs. How sweet how sweet the honeybee.
The Smiths are in a terrible place. O Oscillate
Wildly Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want,
to be followed in turn by Mr. James Brown,
his own pleas trembling the Apollo rafters.
Visiting hours— in the tv room the Haldol reigns.
The President struts among the SS gravestones,
pompadour shiny as a new lp, his movie-actor gait
turned thank God to pastel vapor by Miami Vice.
Flamingos starburst from the credits. Shyly
she will walk the corridor to meet you, your offerings
of Earl Grey, the two black turtlenecks.
Nails cobalt—fingers a-tremble. Gun Shy, Screaming
Blue Messiahs, Dylan at his nadir adnoiding
Brownsville Girl—down here even the swap meets
are getting a little corr-upt. Richard Thompson
When the Spell Is Broken, Jimmy Cliff’s
in limbo waiting for the dice to roll.
When her roommate leaves, you’ll sit with her upon the bed.
Awkward, you will small talk, staring
at your hands. More doors, double doors & triple,
the years the years. Down the carved names
the future with its labyrinths & tailspins, rooms
giving way to rooms, the upturned car, the notebooks
cuneiformed with numbers, pivot & gyre, cache
of Rx pads stuffed into a rolltop drawer. 90 rabid
troubled minutes, coda Robert Johnson. Stones on my
passway & my road seem dark as night. Her eyes in memory
an astonished blue. You reach inside your jacket
& she holds it in her upturned palm. From the bedside
table she lifts the Walkman—the button with its triangle,
the click, the whirr, the eddying forward.
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