doo doo doo

lookin out my front door.

used to be my window, that song you don't know
running in my ears. now i've moved into the new writing
quarters, set on a wicker iron wood cobbled together desk
watch the march winds roll thru, just like old times.

the desk is portable, even if the battery dies
every once in a while the orangish satin scarf blows
across the landscape, full of mandala and memorie
over an otherwise blank sky. my new front porch
looks good on paper so i invite you over for a pinch
and a pipe. color's on its way as our sun declines
 cleaning gutters is on your agenda

. dough's
rising in the kitchen
 quick as you next to me
 on the couch   sheer
 blue curtains block
 the wind soften the view.


dramatically, the sun takes his time dying
falls through opaque clouds, pinkens.

coming into the spring equinox he
was a lot like you and it scared me
how i didn't see the fist on its way
how i almost ignored the bruises you left
in my eyes.

the scarf mandalays across the doorway
but i don't forget the sky,wan as last full moon's edema.

i need netting on the door, a screen attached with velcro
no one goes in and out the front but the view is nice
i make it my new quasi quest.

i'm guiltily happy with the  new floors.
the piss smell, human, dog and cat combined
down to one or two molecules
 only you and the cats detect.
you follow them with a spray bottle,
soon  those remnants  of my first love's
 scent will be finally dispersed.



it's ok though, she visits enough. :)









so the sun is down and i've ported the desk
to the fan shaped, circle covered green chair
whose perfect mirror sits beside it on the new striped
ocher  pallet rug. on the new laminate wood floors
which honey installed just seconds before my family arrived
for a short visit. i stayed up all night cleaning and carefully
decorating the new space with our combined gewgaws and pix
and my dad and his siblings spent most of the visit
on the sawdust and dirt covered porch. it was a idyllic day
yet the irony is not lost . maybe next time i'll be less inclined
to ocd, focus on the bathrooms more, however mopping the kitchen
floor shortly before falling asleep at seven fifteen am was the right thing to do.
i stand by that.


 he asked me, don't i do enough for you you cunt you btich
and i said omg that's not what i said, that's not what i meant
still he scratched loser on the rusted top of mom's marquis, thank god she's dead
and doesn't have to see this courted suicide and my whole world went black
i did the dramatic slide down the side of the car, holding my face
in my hands, going into the space of ohmyfuckingodhowdidipickanotheronethisisthelasttimeimgonnaloveanyoneimeanitneveragain
pain.and he only felt his. i mutter i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry over and over again
and even though later we laugh about cycles and ptsd it's like a pale copy of all
 those years i didn't know  how mental beatings metastasize.

to top it off, i've begun to do his laundry, he feels free to hate housework
even though it helped keep a roof over his head, he wants to rely exclusively on sex
and i think not.


why do i get sleepy writing of this when i've had way more than enough coffee
to keep me awake all night under normal circumstances. i think that 23 awake, 3 hr sleep
schedule kinda wears me out though. i dunno, could be the silence of the wind
rustling the same palms we took our seussian oaths under, pushing at the door
like a ghost trying to shut off the present.

i dunno, i have closed my eyes now, i'm await
the automatic. try to channle where yuo were
when i wrote this, somewhere on an f fifteen
diamond underbelly  gleam. swalling
our tail behind you.

i think i'll lay down, or move. or
hae a cigarette or something.
remind me how it feels to be in this plane.