My Experiences

When a House is Not a Home (poem)

What I see are the lurid, oversaturated colors of grindhouse film. Reds are swollen and dripping mundane rage. Just a Tuesday full of screaming.

Dark minds drone like blue-black sleet behind doors. Angled criminal thoughts slice toward pavement. They move fast and make lines. They appear static because they are constant.

Mentally ill, or
greedy and cunning, or
hurting and hurtful,
are undifferentiated hard rain under a roof.

We have memories of what broke us. Yes, stored right there.

Every doorway and every stacked brick hides a small thing that doesn’t fit in the dark place where it is.

Purple pains lurk in arcane spaces. Frozen moments lean against walls, bent and sunken at weird angles the eye cannot long endure.


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