answers

I walk through the house
opening refrigerator door
after toaster door before
waking up, floor covered
in stories half read, Libra,
“Othello,” James Joyce’s “The Dead”

I am a louse, something
that burrows in the fibers of
my basement couch, flipping
channels browsing annals of
Wikipedia information
searching for answers
station by station, page by page

I go letter by letter to see what
sites are searched and browsed,
my history,
like wine these things get better
with age: this search will deliver me,
I want to be sold, point me in
whatever direction is best,
packaged to look
like I want it, because I do want it.

I’m looking for answers, I started
everywhere I was told not to look:
finding nothing, I flipped tables, shoved
vendors, the lamb’s true wrath, water to wine
scorched to vinegar , every nook I can pour scolding
oil in to get out the bugs,
anything I might find causeless:
broken bread, multiplied trout
it’s the answers, the how and why
that push me after this

And if not I’ll burn the whole damn mattress.