Tuesday, January 5, 2010


Cardboard under the car. Bags out in the hallway. This is a very special farewell. When you walk out the door. Keys out on the floor. Staring out at the ceiling. You know I've been noticing...Noises out the window. Out in the ocean lighting flares. When you walk out the door. There's something special about sniffing your nail polish late at night. High as a kite. Random security drills out on the lawn. Special agents check the garbage for mustard gas. The mayor sells the homeless as bystanders. And they blow up one by one. Out on the lawn. Bags on the floor. Another reality goes on. One where the library isn't full of goth phantom soldiers with guns that don't even exist. Looming economic disaster parts seas and sends the water over vacation spots. Stars light up and then turn out. There's clothes on the floor that I refuse to look at. Utilities and deadlines. Utilities and deadlines. Wake up, work up. Race home to do nothing. Turn on the TV. Turn it off. Get up. Do laundry. Your bags on the floor. Walk out the door. Drive up for more. More. Can't get enough of myself. Can't feed the poor. There's a man at the door. There's a war I should ignore. There's men and women on the TV and they tell me there's always gonna be a knock at my door. Ghosts and aliens run down the walls. Christ has come back and he looks like an insect with all the black weapons-type stealth garments that just remind me of folding metal. This might all be the mushrooms from 7 years ago. This might just be me unglued. Running band aids up and down the walls. Bags at the door. I try to ignore. There was something I forgot and then I find myself playing the piano out on the lawn. The neighbors call the security and I'm panting in front of a SUPPORT OUR TROOPS sign. They ask why and I respond it's about time. I'm shovelled into a truck. Out into a free range roaming ground. It'd be like 1984, but no one cares about what you think. Totaltarianisming is lost on most of them. There's a sense of reality showed mixed with schism. Wake up in sweat. Out on the lawn. Your clothes are gone. Random utensils and spices that I'll never use. Realize there's an oven and this is like some unwanted news. Back out on the lawn. There was no one. No guards, gorillas, or Nazi henchman. Just me out on the lawn. Collecting mail. No anthrax, bombs, or towers. Just this ugly feeling that you left me out on the lawn with no gorillas, guards, or Nazi henchman.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Schism. I enjoy that word.

The schism of Mexico is beautiful this time of year.