28.       Birth-Death Processes

I saw my neighbor today

dazed and smoking in the underbrush

I do not know when the power company will pull me back into the wall.

I can hear the carcinogens gathering on the rooftop

I try to adjust the aerial, but I am afraid.

In the next room he Is dissecting himself and the stench of the barbeque feels like a helicopter.

I do not know how to tie this thing.

Someone came into my house to check my answering machine for messages. I remain in my room and hope they go away.

They tell me to clean up after my cats on their way through my closets. I do not know if they live here, or what.

They leave broken glass on the floor and go to Florida.

The walls are black from ignorance and neglect.

Occasionally I try to go to the kitchen for the end of a loaf of old bread and discover there is a performance in my living room or a party in which nobody speaks English.

Discussing my feelings to the plaster is as taboo as cat piss, and I try to spot the nouns between the filth and chaos.

I feel as if this is a goldfish bowl in the middle of Grand Central and I am afraid the man with the umbrella will knock me over on his way to catch the last train to Paris, leaving me to sit here collecting the paint chips that time sifts from the ceiling.

When there is a mess they put plastic over it, as if to preserve it for me to clean while they make a new mess on top.

When I leave I am afraid they are going through my bookshelves looking for something they can never tell me about.

People from next door are bringing their dirty dishes to leave in my sink.

I am not the only reel in this answering machine but I’ve stayed in bed too long.

I wonder if I can’t find a job will time stop altogether?

I hear a key in the lock again and I tiptoe to close the door to my room.

They are leaving pink sugar hearts insciribed with sexist propaganda to test my patience.

When I try to hide that porcelain frog it reappears the next morning.

I am not sure whose toothbrush that is and I am leaving it right there.

I am not the only one who longs for security, a home free from clauses.

I can always burn the final notice prior to disconnect and try to cook tofu before the flame dies with it my understanding.

In a dream I discover the house has resettled and the door to my room closes again.

Neighborhood cats crawl in through the holes in the screen dragging their kill under the couch.

I am not sure who else is reading this book, but I keep losing my place.

Somebody else has been using my computer to revise my poetry while I am out back mopping their footprints off the portico.

In the sickening hum of the flourescent I hear them laughing again. This time I am not going to let them ruin my concentration. I am going to keep writing. I am