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    The End of the West

    Page 4
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      for good

      in my schoolyard

      sidewalk, blacktop

      afterlife

      My friends waiting at the end of the street

      to beat the shit out of me

      one last

      time

      That’s what I want, that

      or I want to

      fuck them

      One or

      the other

      They’re throwing rocks at the streetlights

      sitting against

      the curb

      shooting heroin

      getting blind and

      calling

      my name

      I can hear my name

      hanging

      in the air

      Not like an echo

      like a moth

      Furious in the

      light

      We won’t be long

      they keep

      saying

      We won’t

      keep you waiting

      I want to tell you a story with my body

      Look at my arms

      What do they look like

      from here?

      Peonies

      Can they look like peonies?

      In this light, at this time

      of day, dusk

      nailing itself down

      inside

      the maple

      My arms

      blooming like peonies

      slowly unfolding

      into their tiny

      colorful deaths

      Heaven

      is what you think it’s going to be

      What do you think

      it’s going to be?

      White people in robes or

      unending night

      Whatever you want

      It’s yours

      At the end of the street

      a choir of trees

      lines up

      in perfect silence

      They don’t say my name

      but my name

      is out there

      When the springtime comes again

      there won’t be anything left

      but ash

      beneath our fingernails

      collecting

      on the tops of our eyelids

      in the pools of our

      eyes

      My tongue

      asleep in ash, my teeth

      beginning to sparkle

      That’s before

      we start turning into shit

      before You

      I want to say that there’s something

      missing

      from heaven

      and I think

      it’s the whisper

      of bodies

      Trees

      Water

      Light

      We won’t do this

      again

      Listen to those stitches

      splitting open

      in the air

      above me

      leaving stars

      in a dark

      I can hardly plot my way through

      Float like a butterfly

      Sting like a bee

      My muscles latch and unlatch

      with little clicks

      opening

      like a door

      into Your house

      You had this shit coming, they whisper

      from the corner

      You’re going to be sorry

      About the Author

      Michael Dickman was born and raised in Portland, Oregon.

      Books by Michael Dickman

      50 American Plays (with Matthew Dickman)

      Flies

      Link

      blueflowerarts.com/michael-dickman

      Acknowledgments

      Thanks to the editors of the following journals, where some of these poems first appeared, sometimes in earlier versions: The American Poetry Review, Field, Narrative Magazine, The New Yorker, and Tin House.

      *

      Thanks to the Michener Center for Writers, in Austin, Texas, the Vermont Studio Center in Johnson, Vermont, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts.

      *

      I wish to thank, for their loving-kindness and support of this work, my family: Wendy Dickman, Elizabeth Dickman, Matthew Dickman, Francis Cobb, the Castelluccis, Dana Huddleston, Darin Hull, and Ernie Casciato. And my friends: Carl Adam-shick, Mike McGriff, Dorianne Laux, Joseph Millar, Meredith Martin, Major Jackson, Marie Howe, Tom Sleigh, Denis and Cindy Johnson, Lee Schore, Jerry Atkin, Charles Seluzicki, and the Christensen-Roberts household. Thanks to Franz Wright for his unfailing support and friendship.

      Thank you Phoebe Nobles.

      I love you Duke

      Copyright 2009 by Michael Dickman

      All rights reserved

      Cover art: Ralph Eugene Meatyard, Untitled, 1960. Gelatin-silver print, 7.5 x 7.25 inches. © The Estate of Ralph Eugene Meatyard, courtesy Fraenkel Gallery, San Francisco.

      ISBN: 978-1-55659-289-8

      eISBN: 978-1-61932-085-7

      Support Copper Canyon Press:

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      www.coppercanyonpress.org/pages/donation.asp

      Contact Copper Canyon Press:

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      ebooks@coppercanyonpress.org

      The Chinese character for poetry is made up of two parts: “word” and “temple.” It also serves as press-mark for Copper Canyon Press.

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