Boarding room, or existential prison cell?
Where there was a carpet, now it’s pages of scribble and
The remnants of paperbacks that were waysided when the
Electronic God descended with all volumes of Dostoevsky a
and Machiavelli in one hand.
I’m almost certain that in all that scratch there’s a
Book of my own waiting to be stitched together like something
-This room; its view; the mess under foot: it’s all monstrosity.
11:30 a.m. and the morning coffee’s still carrying me;
Shit, I brew java so heavy an old Chevy could probably run on it.
But an hour and half from now I’d usually be back in bed, the cat
Competing with unpaid bills, back issues of TIME and the empty
Bag of a last minute evening food run for a place bedside me.
I never took ’em for granted, the scratches in the ceiling;
I can’t help but fancy that they reflect what’s on the legal sheets
‘As above, so below’ ya know?
They were there when I first rented this shit shack.
The last tenant, did he leap from his bed and attempt to claw his
Way outta here? Did he wake up one night believing his
Creator was staring down at him in disgust?
Did he then leap to His feet and break the bed going for those eyes like,…
Like Something Outta Shelley?
I’ve been here nearly six years now, and haven’t seen any deity
In here with me.
Nah, I know better: ’cause it’s in rooms like this that the Maker
Outta shame imprisons miscarriages of Himself, such as me.
Having to rent cheap is His way of forgetting us.
Then the hours; the weeks; Jesus, the years!
Time to let the cat out. He might starve before they realize I’ve
Headed to North like Frankenstein’s Mistake, so to speak.
Looking up; trying to divine the age of the overhead fixture.
Is it too old to hold my weight once I leap from the stool?