I farted in a lift today
                                    I know now
                                                                 That is wrong
                                                                                                      on so many levels.

I used to be unique.
Kool-Aid hair dye and all.
Boys wrote my name on bathrooms stalls.
I swore at teachers.
I drank ***** behind the bleachers.
I puked at football games on cheerleaders.
I had black eyes and cigarette burns and soccer thighs.
I used to wear my shirt undone.
I used to have fun.

Now I own a 6-room house,
a 4-door car,
a water-dispensing fridge,
bell jars.
Also, religion,
caffeine addiction,
magazine subscriptions,
diazepam prescriptions,
goldfish,
900 pairs of shoes,
PVA glue,
a self-inflicted curfew,
sexually transmitted virtue,
and many, many cats.

All this between walls painted in 6 muted shades of deja-vu
from whence I commence my pin-cushion voodoo.

I sleep in pajamas.
I set an alarm clock and my snooze allowance never exceeds 4 minutes.
I spend my mornings yawning
through thick oatmeal,
******* in the dark.

I work in a bank
in an office
on a phone,
making friends with dead ends.

I come home to wash, rinse, and repeat,
undress in the dark,
and brush away the question marks
of hair in the bathtub.

Living alone in two rooms,
Built on love and shallow fires .

He followed graves for life.

Like his father’s yellow hands strapped to the coffin brass,
He claims the black coat and stained shoes in fertile grass.
In enough time he sits alone,
But he can’t bare the heat.
The goat as he was known was blessed as he descent the street.
“ironic” but what else can it be.
Whispers of this hall reflect on sorry feelings.
To think he lived with death like this and died in a familiar scene