PREGNANT WITH COBWEBS

I say: laugh at my ulcers, that honor is an afterthought,
that I am a storied dogfight.

Keep in mind:
I
am
also a
haunted
house.

The yard beyond these windows tilts to a side
(the right) and slowly draws itself in, larger than space, as if it seeks
to fill three lungs. The caretaker burns a pile of leaves out front, he is
pretending they are garbage bags full of love letters and used condoms.
Likewise, the air is magnetic & smells like a junkyard.
My walls still need to be painted. My eaves are pregnant with cobwebs stuck
like first cumshots, held in this way by the attic, bedrooms, basement.
There is the unwashed bacon pan from this morning clogging my sink in
the way of arteries, that I am arterial & weep without due sensation.
Here my floors need to be shined and cared, the dead pigeon in the
chimney mistakes itself for an ashtray and writes letters home in crayon.
This is a house that digests.
A foundation better made of bricks, sides of the home unfinished, an opened
can of motor oil spills in the garage, black liquid sheepish and spying
itself wasted. A female mark upon the floor, cement stained and lying
on the telephone to her ex-husband.
Late what I have seen and joyful long sleep to you.

Today somebody asked me what "surplus" meant and I couldn't help but tear his house down.

So laugh until your stitches split,
content when you're faced with red wine.
Keep laughing - make this one count beyond any other.