OK. This is a different style poem then I usually write. I hate explaining my writing, so i’ll leave it up to you to find what the imagery of the hoarder means.
“A Thought of You”
The cerebral cortex
Is a house with no back door,
No back yard with a dog on a string,
No neighbor kid
playing on a swing,
No morning light
No touch of mythic night.
No weeds growing by the fence,
Or flowers in spring’s suspence.
Just walls,
Corners and corridors,
Walls entending, walls peeling
with a thin layer
of faded compassion.
—
I keep the front rooms cluttered,
Receipts, a crumpled submission,
And yellow nespapers scatterred,
Among
Broken spine books and dirty dishes,
Magazines stacked crookedly,
The floor creaks
But the past rests silently.
—
A few pictures
Of you:
With broken
Disjointed frames
Asymmetrical shards of glass
That I cut my fingers on,
_________That is,
_________If I ever clean over there.
—-
Love, spacial distance of where you are
and my front door,
Conmtemplation of your cold starlight:
But i don’t visit the window anymore.
—
Time, scar tissue thought,
The electrical burn of
What memory brought,
Into the dim lit prison
Extending endlessly
Into the chasm:
A house decrepid.
Blue walls, you liked blue so much.
*
7/10/2011-11/26/2011
-js
