my mind is a ramshackle residence

This job is trying
the landlord, the handyman, the caretaker
the bag of swill that takes the beating,
you figure it all out and then pay for the problems,
a position where the closest thing to comfort
is a list of complaints from the tenants
and like all the repairs desired by the bitch upstairs
it only
grows
and
grows.
I try to look her in the eye
to remind her of why this crooked old place is so cool,
but no! she says
the roof leaks,
well thats the woman upstairs who drinks too much
and neglects to twist her tap, just lets it flow
leaves the window open too
and invites all kinds of undesirables in.
The dry wall is crumbling,
but thats where the autistic girl is
I remind, and she cant help herself
a lot like the one in room 6 who they say's
seen too much or done too many things
they can never remember which
but she twitches so bad she cant bare to be seen
so she lives off of that
which fits through her mail slot,
a sad life some say
but at least she's lived, even if regret
is all she's left with- there are those with less.
The roof shakes!
The kid plays and its music that moves this place
I wont kick that one out
no complaints, its my home too
though you've plied me till I feel like quitting
I've a work ethic, morals to live by
and Ill likely be here longer than you.

baklava

It's these opaque days seen through grime tinted shades
when you've been talking to yourself too much
that you become involved with the subtleties
of your feet sinking into the floor,
ensconced in macabre day dreams
of water, you're surprised that you manage to consume so much
with all the fear roiling around in that stuff
it's living in the food you eat grown by unknown hands,
does that put their blood in your stomach,
it's in the clothes you wear, which smell faintly
of displacement and sorrow woven in with the stitches.
Stretch your surprise until it looks like chagrin
when you realize you're almost content with this
reduced life, internal prattling with past and future,
it's their company you keep, present is never anywhere but in her cups,
and its just as well when the infinite can be held in your hand
while now is so close to the eyes that it slips by unknown.
You know that this growing heavy is inevitable
that one day the ground will shiver and refuse to hold your weight,
you feel the possibility of being plunged into the unknown
with the monster that waits, and it isn't with fear
but a warm relief, to be embraced-
your mother didn't realize it was death you inhaled
when you struggled forth and wailed those first perfect sounds-
reliability should be comforting, but we alternate between angry and afraid.
In the dark life looks like a poorly done painting
found in a thrift store when you were young
of a little boat tossed in waves of brown and green and gray
thick paint tossed on by the untrained
and you bought it, liked the texture you say
it doesn't wipe away all that's been done wrong
but builds layers upon.
What are you made of,
if not manifold layers separated by everyman's heartache-
then thin sheets of nothing I say, an over indulgent baklava of decay.

Salt

The air is tepid
stagnant as the swamps that puncture this swollen land
I was born to this, welcomed in August
my squalling form balking at the lack of temperature control
sweat beads unbearably
where skin touches skin or cloth
as if this large organ forgets how to breathe here
and I wonder if I could drown in it.
In a show of irony
to follow with the theme of things
I am chilled bone cold and ill
with the feeling of feet that sweat like ice
left under this cruel unseasonal sun.
Whisper, I hear your mind
wading through the same crush
perhaps we will be battered in the same wave
and salt will finally feel fresh on weathered skins.
I move through the house
cradle my cat, but salt does not penetrate his coat
so I stroke until the air turns black with fur,
if I had a decent lamp
this space would be red and brown
but even animals are untrustworthy now.
I don't think about words like,
of course we move through alone
and, how could anyone think otherwise
when recalling our beginnings and conjuring our ends,
because there are no words left, only their ghosts,
feeble ineffectual feelings.
I remember when I was a kid and smile for that time
before I was forced to accept myself.
I move through the house
I touch my fingers together, every rough tip
as if that were doing something
as if time must be occupied
before I realize I'm pressing too hard
too late and I'm causing myself pain,
it seemed perfectly normal at the time.
Objects are extracted and moved
I feel their futility in my hands
an unbearable weight, beautiful waste
furniture is pushed around
shoved beneath hands so covered in salt
that I might slip and crash to the floor like
surf breaking, but less majestically
and with no beautiful sounds.
Shut my phone up with the silverware
so that it can learn to become more useful
hide my eyes to keep my mouth company
someone must see me smile.
I don't think of strange words
and what particular meanings they might possess for me.
Expressions are all pulling in the wrong places
I've got sleeves on my legs
and socks pulled up over my wrists
and I wonder why I'm looking so crooked in the mirror
mouth on backwards and I'm forgetting how to speak.