In house

~with widow’s walk~

In attic

–damp and dusty–

dead but alive

–seeking but lost–

I lifted ancient blinds,

and found a barred window…

painted shut and caked

with years-thick dust,

and though allergic

to work

(and dust)

I sawed at the bars

with emery boards

—day into night

and perpetual next—

until time ended

relatively,

and I broke through

I knew not where–

–cutting iron

unexpectedly

effectively.

Scraping layers

of grime from glass,

I rendered the

pain

crystal clear

chiseling at coated sill

—end to end—

to jimmy-wide the window,

to revel in possibility,

to flex my limits,

and sticking my neck out,

I felt only the

rain

until

I pulled back inside.

(behind polarized glass)

foiled the wrong way,

dividing the whole

into unlikely quadrants

–reflecting only

partitions of others–

in chaotic mosaic,

and I realized I was

all wet.

She was a hip chick,

and knew when to get her groove on,

knew when (patchouli) smoke was

–in-a-cense–

just smoke,

and knew when to keep

the lava lamp burning.

 
Cookie & Breadstick got together

at start and stop dinner
 
 
and lived well-off Divinity for a while

it’s very rich

and everything crumby

until things got stale,

and Breadstick went to hell…

he needed the heat to stay hard

Cookie getting all Betty Crocker with a need to conform…

becoming a secret Cutter

who never dared to use Sprinkles,

Or Icing,

Or even Powdered Sugar,

without Stick’s go ahead, who

mean-time

morphed into the Doughboy

Burying Pills in his breadbasket to get through dinner

while Cookie Cutter hit the sauce pretty hard,

mixing up rum balls

(to cover)

burning Pan several times in the process

–and most associated utensils–

and it was inevitable that both glutens eventually batched out,

retiring to the shelves of the Big 4 store from which Breadstick and Cookie Cutter hailed, to await the return to

the Baker

–the real Baker—

all sixes & sevens & sum

13’s.

 
I’m going rogue—

unappreciated Life

becoming an Id Beater,

joining his·band

since Id’s a lousy, overgrown brat…

Id toys with me like a favorite, dilapidating plaything

a scene stager that knows-Id-all, and tells Super Ego

every chance Id gets
 
 

Id gets plenty,

A minor that’s F(n) major

Id’s scale made to order

and spoiled like carrion

Id does carry on

Never ever asking Y, strangely enough,

except when I·Z but I’ll

foil Id evening

sow,

I’ll

wrap Id’s cuts in badinage, and put Id in an

err-less

container, until Id behaves

…

A bit of add-vice

(don’t)

Don’t coddle your Ids,

for all people say they are just like you

or cater to ‘em,

they’ll wage tantrums

they’ll never stand down, if you do,

beating on ear drums the daylong

and are

quite likely to stay with you forever,

running up electric bills, and writing checks you can’t cash.