There’s a room in your house;
what it’s for you do not know.
It seems to collect odds and ends —
the varied detritus of a life lived.
You’d never invite company into this room,
not a friend, not a lover, not a confidant,
and certainly not your therapist.
Sometimes you’re eager to visit,
but other times you dread it —
at such times, you must be pulled by an unseen force.
You’re never indifferent about it,
because it’s never a boring trip,
because this room is rearranged daily.
How it’s rearranged, you do not know.
To the best of your knowledge,
you are the only possessor of a key.
In fact, to the best of your knowledge,
you are the only one who knows how to find it.
Even you couldn’t draw a map.
Its entrance is deep and concealed.
You get there by intuition —
never by counting corners.
Sometimes you are stunned or startled by what you see when the door opens.
Other times it’s as though you’ve stumbled onto a treasure trove.
But the fear, elation, sadness, or madness is short-lived.
For the room is like a vow of love scrawled in wet sand at low tide.
they scream to gods on hidden hills
who watch and watch and drink their fill
but heavenwise direct their will
to higher gods than thou can know
their hope locks not in glacial flows
but awaits the great call of “go!”
then it crumbles, tumbles, and ‘s gone
to cries of “fair” and “right and wrong”
sung by pilgrims unversed in song
rolling in darkness,
the hull rolling against bone,
insides rolling toward the outside
constant motion without visual reference
spurring other sensory experiences:
retching & wailing,
bile scent & bile taste,
Don’t tell me stories about screaming trees.
I’ve heard them in the forest after dark.
Strange boats landed on the shore from vast seas,
carrying saws to make a proper park
of old growth lands that lay beyond the known
and sweep up the sun-dappled leaf litter,
sowing where they’d reaped & reaping what they’d sown,
silencing the chitter of bird and critter.
Rearranging, like bedroom furnishings,
the space of nature’s grand, endless chaos.
Building fences, trapping, and clipping wings.
They spay and spray and pray, and scrape the moss.
The boats, long since rotted, landed near here
between that Taco Bell and the concrete pier.
Some rage against the dying of the light.
Some rage at the neon glow through their window,
catching them in the eye after midnight,
slowing time’s movement to a viscous flow.
Some rage about the sassy, sloppy youth.
Others rage that the old can’t understand.
Some rage when strangers sit down in their booth.
Others rage when things don’t go as planned.
Some rage about how time moves too quickly.
Others rage that we’re all stuck in the past.
Some rage until they’re tired and sickly.
Some rage they missed out by saving best for last.
You wonder why the lack of deathbed rage?
Let’s call it the wisdom of the end-stage.
I had a patio into 4th dimensional space.
It was in a shape I couldn’t imagine,
I painted it a color that doesn’t exist.
Sometimes it warped into a torus,
it popped in & out of existence without warning
on more than one occasion.
But it was a fine place to watch the sun come in at the end of a long eternity.
“Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” — G.K. Chesterton
Ah, Mister Chesterton, I must concur.
The Camembert love is lacking, Monsieur!
If there’s a way to make bacon better,
surely it’s smothering it in Cheddar.
On bread and water prisoners endure,
but brie with bread is the height of grandeur.
What, say you, is more addictive than crack?
Just a cracker topped with Monterey Jack.
Yes, poets obsess on love and death,
but you can smell the Roquefort on their breath.
[OK, there’s no budget for Roquefort,
truth is, it’s a canned cheese of some sort.]
What bird or bat drives my fright?
I heard a bump just last night,
for the third night in a row.
Then a word, as from Poe’s crow,
the word I heard was evermore.
Yes, evermore. Not NEVERMORE!
Was this bird optimistic,
or eternally sadistic?
chirps & clicks,
throaty frog croaks
just past dusk
bats take to balconies
glow of nebula
ghosts in color
dawn colors ever on
deep north winter
light a distant flare
in Stygian eons
on a sandy sea floor sit stones —
once a city
who will find them?
what a pity,
someone dragged those stones into place,
nudging them into the shape of a temple,
a temple where fish now seek shade.