i.

shake me in a windmill and my heart
is filled with flowers, blooming over
into my singing lungs, until i gasp
for breath because i cannot . . .

no, too far . . .

the notes are bouncing from the tin
of my open chest cavity, from the bins
of organs you sifted through in order
to find where I was.

i'm so far away.
so dead so far.

help.

i'm sitting inside a three-by-five foot
box and pounding at the closed ceiling,
seeking a way out, because it's dark in
my head and my body is looking for

light and sun.

i can feel the roses.
the grass is crowding out my insides,
the dogs are running wild.

her feet?

dirty and we are never sleeping, not
when the long hot dog men are slapping
their babies and killing their mothers,
gathering all the red lips for their

buns.

it smells like vomit these days, stench
like too many hot days in a row,
like her hands are tied up
slowly and with rubber ropes,
clear so she can watch her wrists
turn purple and blue and sunset colors.

i never thought it . . .

stop.
brain dead.

freezer food. frozen foot. forgotten fable
and the fox will always eat the hare
at the end of this story.

[end of act one. the curtain gets caught
in the rafters, my heart gets caught in
my throat, and it is soon time
for bar close. last call, get your
drinks while it's still intermission.]


a.n.: this will be a series of poems based off my reading of House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. i'm still reading it, and this isn't meant to follow anything in the book necessarily, but more my own personal interpretations therein. in other words, don't expect it to make sense, even if you have read the book. this first poem in particular is strange.