Eileen Myles
Addenda
Not dead
rationalizing how
this might
be the plan
I reveal to you here
but the dross
lives on, the more
important part
the hovering
body fingers tapping
Ginger Ale
you don’t
want
to think
about
chickens
going
over London.
Millions
of chickens
opening
their
eyes
for one second
waking
up in a
cage
not in a wide
field
of tiny
chickens
like a
mile wide
tray
and they
get these
chemicals
on their
feet that’s
the only
way I can
imagine
it filled
with sex
drug
that makes
them
wild
distorted
crippled
and how
do they
kill the
chickens
all at
once where
did chickens
come
from anyway
some
chickens
wake up
in some
nice
place & wind
up @
Lesley’s
where
they lived
for a while
having
friends
living in her
yard
with
their
different
personalities
but the millions
and trillions
of the other
kind
one flash
of light
then they’re
eaten
on a plane
we’re
flying
& we’re
eating
them &
aren’t
they
birds
and the
plane
is going
over
water
now
a plane
full
of killers
desperately
looking
for something
good with
their
fingers
but there’s
nothing
good
how
could
there
be. The
chickens’
death
is not
on your
hands
something
else is.
Nobody Friends
Nobody’s
talking about the five
of you
a family
the blue
sky gets all
the talk
that’s sometimes
brown
I see accusation
in your bright
white faces
a wee bit
of fear because
posing for a pic
ture means
what for
cows. You’ll bring
expected prices
they say. You lived in North
Texas. There’s a reddish
tree and we’re standing
far back from where you gaze
and head down
eating grass. There’s brown
along the skyline
bumpy. Looking like
paradise the caption
says but on closer
examination reveals
short pickings. I saved
you for what. To say
you’ve been and gone
and each time you
pose I think of you
and go oh. Long dead people
look so dumb. You’re the
same ones I know
today and the photos
are blatantly poor.
The light on your face and bodies
the way you stand, the day
is true. Still is. Yours.
Yours. All yours.
the photos (hopper)
the photos
are the re
minders
of the buildings
& the sha
dows
the sun. Ache
the long
of her
feet
on the bed
the crooked
block be
hind her
head the
indenture
of foot
press under
trees
outside
red
building
her nose
looks
like his
wife
cartoon
pipes
Egyptian
details
on the
posts
three
laps
over
her
head.
making
bare
our wildness
of course
of the
clouds
smoking
out the
sun
do the
buildings
eat
the sky
I can
count
windows
people
like ants
the rough
I think
of New
Jersey
a blaring
hedge
tree don’t
give
a damn
the paintings
are sets
the humans
are things
but living
cameras
guiding
us by their
silent
pained
presence
Sweet
of them to
invite us
out to
real white
light today
in yummy
hungry
new York
in the
movement
of the
finished
head
her gender
smeared
he drew
trans
Tonight
for J.
she kept
staring @
me &
I kept
eating
the berries
my shoe
lacing
untied
one pen
died
& there’s a-
nother
one right
next to the long
rusted
bolt I keep
on my
table
to hold the
paper
down. There’s
so much
wind
here. It
challenges
buildings
she’s calm
now sit
ting
right by
my feet
now that
the berries
are gone.
She’s looking
now she
can feel
the pause
and her paws
are all
I can see
on the
floor
the world
is the
same as
it ever
was. Things
cast shadows
& a room
has sound
mainly
from the e-
nergy
we light
it with.
You know
what I
mean. The
mirror
reflects
the dog
she looks
in my
eye. She
scratches
she looks
@ me again
with her
beautiful eyes
and her
chain. She’s
such a
little guy
she’s not
the boss.
Can I
give you
this?
Eileen Myles is a poet, novelist, and art journalist whose practice of vernacular first-person writing has made them one of the most recognizable writers of their generation. Pathetic Literature, which they edited, came out in fall 2022. a “Working Life,” their newest collection of poems, is out now from Grove Press. They live in New York and in Marfa, Texas.