I’m standing on one leg in my slammin’ salmon pink room, with my curvy waterbed, staring at the silly, swaying Appalachia hillbilly trees
That laugh with a country accent that slows down and up and down and
I’ve never been more scared of that picture by Van Gogh
The skeleton man with a cigarette in his mouth
Like a thinner Freud! (Like a doctor)!
My frenzied scribbling is like an ****** to a forty-something housewife that enjoys
Late nights drinking wine and Vicodin cocktails to give her some
Semblance of normalcy (Necks suckling over me like rainbow breakdance)
Their voices are back again…
They’re crowding all around me…
These walls These walls
Speak to me
These walls These walls

I like the pink walls because they talk to me in my mom’s voice
And
when they get too loud,
God sits quietly in my coffee cup and whispers to the nurses
Brightly, angrily! He tells that silly Lilly to
Make him take his medicine
And like an obedient child,
Or a bride to be…
I do
Now when I stare out my window, the trees no longer laugh
Skull with Cigarette becomes a soft reminder of home
Which reminds me to pick up the cordless landline and call my mother
To tell her that everything is quiet now and that
My soft, white bed is made and my room is clean now for her to come visit tomorrow
So I lay my head down and fall asleep
Cradled by walls of silence