Archive for April 26th, 2011
My pieces swim around mirthlessly. I say I am homeless, but really, my life is in a box, my home is in a box. My home is a box.
I hear of those in prison cells. Every person is left inside a box. Each of us makes his own box. Mine is cardboard, yours is brick, hers is padding, his is cinderblock, and hers is a cow hide tent that loves to act like a box. All of us are restrained by our boxes. Our boxes keep us from doing what our spirit wants us to do.
One time I was in a room with many people and I felt my box literally disappear. I thought I might be leaving earth, perhaps dying. But I didn’t die. My box came back. My box is consistent and my box always comes back.
Today, I will look for a special blanket. I’m looking for forest green, or perhaps army green. When I find it, I’ll know it. It will soften the box so much, the box will fly away as dust.
I need a home, something like a pine box with a mattress. I see the box every day, but I never see a home. With a home, I might recover.
If I walk alone, down the haunting, overbearing hallway, with my hands clasped and my head bowed, will all of the shit fly above my head and swirl around like tornadoes in the high-peaking, diamonded ceilings with little receptacles? The hallway is my home where my gods speak loudly and tell me to be me. It is a special box. They tell me there is value to living. I need no bed in my hallway. I need no sleep. The portals in my hallway have no windows, so I breathe in the good of the world and as I exhale, I share it with the gods who help me live today. I see beautiful flowers in thousands of colors and gentle pathways when I look out of a portal, and when I smile, I can feel my gods smile. They do – They smile. I float about my box and I wait for someone who might need my help.
It’s Inspiration Monday IX at BeKindRewrite. Lots of great work over there and I love the prompts.
On a stack of wicked sticks,
you are the dead, red elephant.
Judgment rains down
in jars of purple feathers.
If we cared for you, we’d listen.
But we know the hollowness
of inhuman cracked shells,
so we watch you pass
on your way to the soupy tan drain
that feeds other devils like you.
White paint flooding blue,
fake-marbled, vinyl tile.
As it goes, the drying goes.
End of childhood.
Eggs without shells.
Pink swans dancing on tin cars.
92 pieces of china, different sizes and shapes,
getting pelted by hail.
Haunting, sinewy dandelions,
creeping with tiny dolls
made to look like Russian soldiers.
soccer field larger than an ocean,
and a snapped block.
Many snapped blocks.
I learned about half-seconds.
Tiny dolls sing of other fates,
hopping with broken toes on broken china.
Broken horn, car horn,
stuck on D-flat.
Deep, dark oranges
full of bricks and poisons.
Dropped from 9 stories,
compounding death of much of the brain.
Always empty guns.
Brown tanks named Jack,
incomplete without Daniels.
Pink rose tethered to save days,
but fat ass smashes pink rose.
chasing all of the thieves
hard into stone wall
on top of a miserable loser,
a man of no value
who should be locked
in rooms with chains
and sour mattresses,
without human contact,
waiting for his pine box.
With God’s fingers, not noticeable,
but guiding the chaos,
41 million china plates on my head,
never falling but bending the spine.
Sit alone after God leaves.
Feel the chaos stir all of the diseases
and cook brilliant red mess.
Come back to me.
Don’t you give up now!
On my knees,
into Roman sunsets.
sings of worthlessness
and is indomitable.
The song is not over,
but it is so quiet.
Humans don’t want to try to hear.
Almost Wednesday – It’s One Shot Wednesday – Go check out the fine work there!