Tuesday, November 28, 2006


flat walls
in rooms of deceased relatives
stare at nothing.
not waiting
not singing
just being wallpaper flatness
Euclidian boundaries for bugs
containing air no longer (if ever) breathed
by Heroes of Purpose
or Victims of Satan.

if you kissed the paper skin inside these
constructed stomachs
you would taste dust and flatness
and hardness
and silence
s i l e n c e / s i l e n c i o
you could drink it if your were a ghost.
are you a ghost?

these are rooms in which your ears ring
nothing else
the horse shit from busy busy busyness
has blown far and wide
it's all over here.
no second chances
don't call us
we won't call you.

boxes for being vertical in
boxes for being horizontal in.

these faces of flatness are
they're there
defining a moment
emboxing a life.

touch the walls, go ahead,
do it, do it, touch i
t, touchit, run your hand
fromlefttoright, don't close it, ke
ep your palm open, belly up to this paper drum of flatness
-- it won't be nice.

this queer, dry feeling is a cut,
a rule,
a declaration that says STOP RIGHT HERE
you can't go through here!
move away, you're too goddamn close
go over there and sit down and
stay in fleshland. touch fleshland. make love to fleshland.
stay away from us.

oh, oh,
there's a hole in that wall
a rectangular portal to
. . . another box?
flat faces there too
and dryness.
but they're not waiting for me
they have no agendas, wallpaper doesn't unstick itself
or have to be buried
with sacraments or grave gear
or tears.

if I fell to my knees
in rooms of deceased relatives,
the flatness, the FLATness and dryness
and hardness,
the wallpaper, sticking
on grainy, painted walls
(except on portals)
would make no eye contact with me.
I wouldn't be blinked at or listened to
or insulted
even ignored.

something else

something else