Home Life
Falling,
Drifting drifting drifting...
The pavement welcomes me
With the somber march of piano solos--
--The earbuds protected me.
I'm cradled by my leather office throne,
And the cool din of electronic windows
Into my perilous imaginations.
I erect my homely figure with tired,
Heavy,
Gelatinous,
Knees...
This beige box in which I reside,
Like college dorm rooms,
Has Teflon walls incapable of photographs...
Going on twenty years...
From here I listen to Tim
Cry out into the dark of night,
Sleeping on full time jobs
And resuscitation of ancient principles.
Mother wakes up in an angry winter sweat.
Paces back and forth weeping for the cat we never owned.
Whaling about the fall of Men;
How incompetent and fucking hateful we are.
Beside me is the cave
Where Pierce guzzled his grass, speed, and melancholy,
And Taylor and I pinned him down for exorcisms of rage.
Now? Tim just gasps for air in his motor snores.
At the base of the steps Shady ages with the season.
Forgets that Taylor and Pierce aren't coming home...
Stares at me passionately vacant
Protesting my orders to go up and sleep.
Hissing flaccid embers...
Mother forgot to turn off the fireplace;
Exhaustion from war
and living.
Finally, the BattlezoneTheatre of War;
I stand in the contemplative glow of the kitchen lamp,
Glance my fingers across the forgotten battle scar
Where Tim landed four knuckles
In desperation to avoid mother's face.
Before earbuds
I watched the war
And the sight of lovers holding hands was awkward;
My Chinese neighbors calling for their children in Mandarin.
On the table is a letter from Grandpa Richard
About how Jane's rants of alien devices and moon conspiracies
Weren't his fault but the shrinks', and now he's set a trap for them
From his lonely boat in the Pacific.
I don't know what - I didn't bother to finish...
