To an Upstairs Neighbor

          Greetings good morning it is me your downstairs

neighbor I can hear you walking around hello.

          I don’t know you at all but oh I can tell

by the patterns of your footfalls that I sure do

          enjoy you. I sure hope your life is a joyous one. I hope

you have a dog who is a good stupendous dog.

          I hope you keep nice plants & I hope they rise

to your silverwaterhands. I hope someone touches you

          like a forgiveness machine. Neighbor in your upstairs

clothes, I could say I love you more than lunch

          but I’m not trying to put the heart before the course—

I’ve only known you these few moments & what

          have I already revealed? Since we’re oversharing—

in my heart BMI stands for Bowel Movement Information

          which you will find in the footnotes of this book

which is my body—the primary injustice

          of an unjust existence. According to Julia Kristeva

it’s supposed to make me feel terrible that stuff

          inside my body one moment is outside my body

the next, that it too is my body, but it just makes me feel

          Vesuvian! I shit & spit & weep until I’ve wiped

out the little village & nothing remains of me

          to finish telling you what I don’t want to have to tell you.

When the Lord made the angels it was this way—

          vomit, excrement, ejaculate, milk. Each took

the shape of an idea, a terrible restlessness in the flesh,

          dashed themselves into each other like ships

against quivering columns of moonlight & well,

          that was angels! But we’re talking about

boundaries now. Borders & serration. Where my skin

          saws into the air is a boundary/border, but

I can never quite cross into that empty country. Try it—

          how frustrating! All due respect to Julia, I cannot agree.

For if I truly was all of my various emissions

          wouldn’t I know everything at least about the sewer

systems of the greater Los Angeles area & as well, other

          sewer systems? Wouldn’t I have visions in which I abandon

myself, mammoth body entering each particle

          of air like a fire made of little hallelujahs, little written-out

hallelujahs! burning a hole in the ceiling, so that I might see you,

          my upstairs neighbor of the boots that go clomping

this way and that? Mightn’t I see you consulting your cookbook,

          preparing to bake a tray of raspberry tarts for a party

I am not supposed to know about, because I am

          the stranger, the Angel of Boundaries, anonymous

& unfortunate beast who sleeps beneath your sleep?