Such a simple synonym of a great yellow house
swaddled in the shadows on a flat patch in the backyard
a refuge resting of bric-a-brac and ornamental knickknacks
with a paint chipped porch that beamed once a brilliant white
a birdhouse filled with straw the previous owners left behind
a plywood room banished with no insulation and one lonely window
something of substance, with grainy walls to hold me up
a quiet place to talk to myself when the sun goes to sleep
where the imagination springs open deliciously
behind that old closed door that creaks
a cube where prayers share the stale air with the stillness of time
improvised shelving of old milk crates battered as gypsies
like migrating baggage nomadic through the years
that rainbow hammock hanging loose from the rafters
a husk to lift a weary back, a sheath to house the soul
a shaky legged easel from my love, nested into its very own corner
reflecting outward like a mirror so I might better see myself
the plastic man of gold modestly retired above the window seal
the only trophy I ever felt I ever earned
an electric heater rattling its nonsense in the cold night air
amusing any shivering listener who cares to be warmed
A string of soft incandescent lights that dangle overhead
perfectly framing the faded native masks like vibrant yellow teeth
wilted candles scattered amongst the odds and ends
there wax bellies spattered on the floor to keep the paint drippings company
a mess of tousled brushes protruding from the dented silver can
wearing disheveled hairpieces to match their eccentric ways
the squatting antique box with its stitching and fat brass latches
enshrined as a tiny monument to the mantis and the moth
secrets scribbled on the dead parchment crammed into their tombs
journals that became maps on my journey to myself
icons harbored naive and coarse
to be plotted and stationed, rearranged and cherished
a cocoon that bursts from inside out
viscera stashed in a capsule to be kissed and romanced
the stacked canvases like a house of cards
leaning in tired on the supports of their brothers and sisters
the faces of reincarnation hanging on pushpins
those abstractions surreal in all their horrid geometry
the pirate ship, the aerosols
the old machine that holds the rotten gumballs
bolts and screws and arrowheads
a native tongue that enriches the enigma
not merely a physical escape of hoarded trinkets
fitted ad hoc with all the contrivances to tinker away the while
more abstractly a spiritual gathering of subdued memories
a space becoming itself a philosophy unraveling the details
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 7:28 PM UTC
Such a simple synonym of a great yellow house
swaddled in the shadows on a flat patch in the backyard
a refuge resting of bric-a-brac and ornamental knickknacks
with a paint chipped porch that beamed once a brilliant white
a birdhouse filled with straw the previous owners left behind
a plywood room banished with no insulation and one lonely window
something of substance, with grainy walls to hold me up
a quiet place to talk to myself when the sun goes to sleep
where the imagination springs open deliciously
behind that old closed door that creaks
a cube where prayers share the stale air with the stillness of time
improvised shelving of old milk crates battered as gypsies
like migrating baggage nomadic through the years
that rainbow hammock hanging loose from the rafters
a husk to lift a weary back, a sheath to house the soul
a shaky legged easel from my love, nested into its very own corner
reflecting outward like a mirror so I might better see myself
the plastic man of gold modestly retired above the window seal
the only trophy I ever felt I ever earned
an electric heater rattling its nonsense in the cold night air
amusing any shivering listener who cares to be warmed
A string of soft incandescent lights that dangle overhead
perfectly framing the faded native masks like vibrant yellow teeth
wilted candles scattered amongst the odds and ends
there wax bellies spattered on the floor to keep the paint drippings company
a mess of tousled brushes protruding from the dented silver can
wearing disheveled hairpieces to match their eccentric ways
the squatting antique box with its stitching and fat brass latches
enshrined as a tiny monument to the mantis and the moth
secrets scribbled on the dead parchment crammed into their tombs
journals that became maps on my journey to myself
icons harbored naive and coarse
to be plotted and stationed, rearranged and cherished
a cocoon that bursts from inside out
viscera stashed in a capsule to be kissed and romanced
the stacked canvases like a house of cards
leaning in tired on the supports of their brothers and sisters
the faces of reincarnation hanging on pushpins
those abstractions surreal in all their horrid geometry
the pirate ship, the aerosols
the old machine that holds the rotten gumballs
bolts and screws and arrowheads
a native tongue that enriches the enigma
not merely a physical escape of hoarded trinkets
fitted ad hoc with all the contrivances to tinker away the while
more abstractly a spiritual gathering of subdued memories
a space becoming itself a philosophy unraveling the details
