The Room of my Life

Here, / in the room of my life / the objects keep changing. / Ashtrays to cry into, / the suffering brother of the wood walls, / the forty-eight keys of the typewriter / each an eyeball that is never shut, / the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest, / the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde, / the sockets on the wall / waiting like a cave of bees, / the gold rug / a conversation of heels and toes, / the fireplace / a knife waiting for someone to pick it up, / the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore, / the phone / two flowers taking root in its crotch, / the doors / opening and closing like sea clams, / the lights / poking at me, / lighting up both the soil and the laugh. / The windows, / the starving windows / that drive the trees like nails into my heart. / Each day I feed the world out there / although birds explode / right and left. / I feed the world in here too, / offering the desk puppy biscuits. / However, nothing is just what it seems to be. / My objects dream and wear new costumes, / compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands / and the sea that bangs in my throat.