I’m stuck on the serene.
I am a fly caught by the sky of stars,
onto your cars dashboard’s glass-
beneath windshield wipers cast of silver.
the past is a postcard memory.
a momentary glismpe over my shoulder,
and a 35 cent postage stamp.
there is so much love here.
it covers me, endlessly.
until i breakout like an allergy.
feeling the rash of never belonging/nor…
being worthy of all the love
he sends to me.
I’m a broken down rabbit earred TV screen.
stuck on static and white noise.
i am broken into too many
to be fixed by your hi-fi definations.
I am the broken down pay-phone,
in the mental ward which only takes
quaters, and everybody is fresh out,
sadly giving me longing looks of too much pain.
I am the peeling paint job
on the oldest wooden house
abandoned ob our block
windows nailed shut
front door busted into
filled with the evils of crime, rodents of luck and opportunistic stray cats.