for Junot Díaz
Tune in, spoon into, this audio sputter, the din
of my judo-jumped heart—you who make me
no-doubt dizzy. My horizon’s dotted with tidbits and tactics
to ferry you on a jaunt to Zion. Join me for donuts?
A joint account? A tin can trilogy? I’m a tad off-
kilter, sleep pricked with nits of
… undo me, do unto me …
My DNA’s been shot by the Uzi of you—
but ain’t nothing I can do, you so full of no’s,
anti-this, don’t do that, not by any dint
of swoon or sorrow. My aunt juts in front of me
an ad for an ointment guaranteed
to aid my toady woes. “You’re nuts,” she says,
“a ton of them.” Even so, I want to drink your jazzy stars.
... sweet as, fleet as ...
Oh, too much to do, and I make much ado
about all the wrong things. My tan’s gone dun.
I’m due for an audit. What’s the use?
Longing’s just an unplucked oud.
You’re always talking small, units and ions,
flinging ants at my oatmeal. I’m a jot
in the vastness of your tundra. My id’s made
a junta of what we’d once agreed to adjoin.
Taunted and daunted, I don my coat
of arms like a NATO blunder and fly
on auto pilot into yonder. Nod, please
nod, if you have one iota of mercy.