A Nothing

I’ve gone scattered.

Now that I have so much (and what beautiful things!), I lose easily. My lost earbuds were last seen in Los Angeles, living in someone else’s pocket. (I have since cut them loose.)

I thought I lost my papers. I thought I lost my wallet. (Soon after, they were found. Fool was I! Fool am I.) Where do these things go? I wasn’t a better accountant [keeper of accounts; one who takes counts; one who is accountable; etc. etc. etc.] in my past life. Was I?

But forgive me for losing, for being a loser.

Beautiful things are my panacea. I wake (late, always) and come to the light at the dining table, just to look at my flowers, my velvet, my silken, my gossamer flowers. I touch them only to change the water. I touch them primarily with my eyes.

Today I retired a rose. His petals, wrinkled like skin, came off easily. I imagined spreading them under your feet. (Ah! the sucking mire of romance! Back! Back!) I broke his stem to fit him in the trash. Beautiful thing.

Today an orchid appeared on the counter. Another plant (I do not know its name. Fool am I!) appeared in the corner. I collected planting pots and put them on the balcony. My backpack goes out empty and comes back nearly as empty. Fruits roll in its dust.

I cut and paste papers. (Are they any better than before? Certainly more beautiful. Certainly to me.) I am an addict. The cutter emerges again and again. The glue will not stay sealed.

In the shower, thumped by water, speaker chanting, I remember my vows.

I seek to worship as a dervish, a motion, a snapping rope tied from self to self. O god! your gospel comes as infrasound. Here am I; where art thou? (At the club? Damn. Damn!)

I hold a little puddle. I tie my hair into a wet wad. I rub oils and creams over the dead layers of my body, two pumps of one, five drops of another. I anoint myself with my hands held in prayer. I say one too, a little one, a silent one: may my life stay beautiful, may I lose what I must—and no more.