Sunday, December 6, 2009

apartment window

day light spills
catch the unfinished jigsaw on a cut up coffee table
tea stains on a splotched surface without the history
without a culture or a maker
just instructions times new roman black on white
and an illustration with rounded edges
light moves
creeping inches
no not creeping but glacial flow across the floor
across wires into walls
dead skin and pocket lint up in the air
and whatevers got my lungs so filthy
no sawdust or tiny angels with tiny little harps
and a tiny little melody
and up the walls like moss
and up the walls like mice and the slow drip of paint thinner
when im on my back and theres ceilings in my eyes
and thats me alluding to french art movies
and over the shelves and the liberal arts college approved book collection
poynton and awakening and anything else
where a white woman kills herself
because society is patriarchal and this is not the point
and the light disappears at the corner of the wall and ceiling
and the orange pours in
artificial harsh
articifically harsh in a poem in free verse
and it doesn't touch anything
mechanical gear devoid of all oil and grease stillness
like your grandfather in the casket stillness
and it doesnt pulse and throb
when it throws your shadow up on the wall
for an hour ever 4 am

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