hello the fluff
of the
written world,
mr. poetry.
you walked out the door
and forgot to hide the
lock key.
now inside,
i find the innards of used sweat,
bad contractors,
older kids,
blood from forgotten scabs,
the detris of beauty,
and my
foggy reflection in
the mirror.
as i traverse floor to
floor of
my
wonderful
abode of mr. poetry,
i forget
myself,
then remember myself
in lighter versions
of deja vu.
and as i ready to
rifle straight into
the spokes of
light
out of
the light of mr. poetry,
i hold up
short.
stop.
turn around
and come straight
back into
the
heartbeat tornado
to squeeze a little more
from the used lemon
rhine
because
that's how
we
fix
things
around
this
house.
