Coming home to my little nest
Working backwards to find the inside of my stomach
no one cares
and that's okay
it's really okay

I am looking for the comfort in being nothing

I sometimes wish that I could
just be content
But then I wouldn't be me

How long from this moment
will no one know I ever existed?
How many people know about
my Great Grandfather Howard Hubbard?

There is breathing that is yours
it is mine for now
and it is warm
the breaths I borrow from you fleet rhythm

We play a song from bad speakers
that I've been listening too everyday for a few days

The song is a blanket
it's not down but nothing's perfect
underneath it is warm like the breathing

The wind outside is noisier than the song
not knocking but clanking cold on my windows
I am thinking of the cold outside
I am under the blanket that is the song
I am under a window that faces the highway
I try to think of nothing

But I cannot think of nothing
because I am thinking of the song
this song written decades before me
this song that is short
I am afraid that the song will end
I am warm and thinking of being cold

Even under this blanket
I am not listening to the song
I am thinking of the next song
the song I don't know
the song that I am afraid of

When you don't have a home
you begin to appreciate
the things you do own

the cloth that hugs my arms
and back and neck
that warms my body
and becomes a pillow
for a nap
on a slopped fleshy hillside

which I wanted at the time
a moment and
then second guessed so soon
for years for I saw
what it looked like from
outside of me, when inside
it suited a side of me perhaps
not all sides but a side

When sadness takes me,
my head is my bedroom
and my bedroom has not been cleaned.
I cannot see the floor.

Sometimes I am so sad
that I put it on a paper.
With the energy left,
I pick up a pen
or type a key,
and then:

I AM SAD.

And there it is,
the sadness,
there you are,
without clutter.

Sometimes I am so sad
that I write it down.
So I can look at the sadness,
there,
away from me.