The warrior lost her shield in the mud
in the great back-beyond
of yesterday
She lifted the sword above her head
and shouted to somewhere far away
beyond today
Then charged headlong into the fray

I burnt the roof of my mouth again
On hot tomato soup
Like I do once or twice every other week.
You tell me to wait and remind me that
I am a Patient Person but I
Can’t
And to be honest,
I kinda like it

under the table
where the wood shavings grow
where I eat my cold meals
on the cold cobbled stone
under the table
where the knowledge flows down
from callous-studded hands
to the human-shaped Noun
under the table
where no one can see
who carves the cabinets
who'd know that it's me
under the table
where the years pass me by
where I wait for that one day
the woodworker dies
the woodworker dies
the woodworker dies
THE WOODWORKER DIES

human hearts beat in rhythm
against my stillness
like a knock
against a door
that doesn't want
to be answered

I am emulsified.
Painted onto shingles
of glittering rooftops
Where the weather abrades me.
Fated observer from a distance
Ogling people and their things
People and their things
Feeling feelings inside me
and all around me
People and their things
Passing past.
But I am empty windows full of images
and antique furniture.
Never looking and always seeing.

I AM THAT HOUSE
in your recurring dreams

I AM THAT HOUSE
the one you are always running from
yet never entered

I AM THAT HOUSE
full of old-things well-loved
crooked and cursed by the neighbors

I AM THAT HOUSE
the white one rubbed grey
paint peeled away
sighing at the crossroads

I AM THAT HOUSE
my creaks and groans so familiar
you know exactly where to step
to go unnoticed

At the crossroads
I AM THAT HOUSE
Paint peeled to grey
Never entered
I AM THAT HOUSE
Always running away
Unnoticed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Of familiar steps
Crooked and cursed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Well loved by the neighbors
Ablaze
I AM THAT HOUSE
In recurring dreams

I am that house.
You're back here again.
The door is open.
Won't you come in?

What've we got to lose after we've sold ourselves
to the cold cells of objective confinement?
What've we go to say after 12 hour days
in the callous grip of the wage?
How can we know what we want to be
when we don't even know what we're eating?
When abuse comes beating in cycles, feeding
through the black holes of television sets?
We try our very best to get by,
And For What?
Where do we go to retrieve our souls
when it is we ourselves withholding
Love
from each other?