a sack of fabric
filled with a thousand cotton balls
isn’t a pillow…
a shirt, pale blue and faded
from a million trips
through the wash, so comfortable
the wearer doesn’t care
that it’s speckled with holes
and has a rip so wide at the shoulder
it pretty much shows an entire clavicle…
a dumpy brown couch that makes
so many sounds when you get on and off
you think it might have its own language now…
a fucking mattress so sad it should
have met the dumpster years ago — dementia foam,
no spring, no bounce, just saggggggggg
and stains of sweat and other fun fluids
one hopes go unseen in the night…
blankets that offer little comfort
but a good amount of warmth…
various lightbulbs never changed,
cracked tiles, scratches in walls, and
streaks on mirrors that are just left there
on purpose, never wiped, because a reflection
tends to look better that way…
plants very much alive but needing new pots,
tv just on the threshold of obsolescence
with a dim backlight that finally,
after a decade of pixel-blast, feels just about right…
and books, novels, magazines, notebooks,
all forms, all contents, all types,
everywhere, books, books, piles of books,
wooden shelves overflowing with books, mountains
of words, mountains of life, other worlds, other souls,
hearts, minds, and conquered realities,
electric channels to other planes
of existence…towers, towers of glorious pride…
so, yeah, when everything else says mendicant,
beggar, fool, lazy piece of trash-monster, king of
dirty fantastic lies,
it’s the towers, my towers —
the towers tell the truth
because my towers touch the sky
Garbage Notes: