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The Room Of My Life

in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into, the suffering brother of the wood walls, the forty-eight keys of the typewriter each an eyeball that is never shut, the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest, the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde, the sockets on the wall waiting like a cave of bees, the gold rug a conversation of heels and toes, the fireplace a knife waiting for someone to pick it up, the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore, the phone two flowers taking root in its crotch, the doors opening and closing like sea clams, the lights poking at me, lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there although birds explode right and left.
I feed the world in here too, offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.

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