The house is made of arsenic-laced
lumber and a mosaic of crumbling
lead based paint.
The porch is creased on a diagonal seam
and the boards end in jagged jumbles.
The insects come and go through their own
ancestral openings in the linoleum.
There's something life-affirming in living
among the poisons, wreckage, and parasites.
You stand there very aware of your own body.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Monday, April 17, 2006
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Blog Archive
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2006
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April
(29)
- Poem
- The Man in Your Garden
- Giving up T.V.
- Jaw
- Habit
- The Coffeeshop's Last Week
- Lost Things
- Driving Tired at Night
- Ecdysis
- Work Routine
- The Imagination of Fathers
- Ugly Days
- ...But the Rent's Low
- Poems That Fail
- Creation
- Hometown
- Acceptance
- Losing the National Debate--A Consolation
- Responsibility
- One Man Down
- Influence
- The Workers Wait Out the Tornado
- Violence of Mind
- Love Note to Me, from Me
- Arguments at Work
- Morning, Early Spring
- Night
- Weather Change
- Routine
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April
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2 comments:
"Crumbling, parasitic flesh", but your right the "rent's low". Love it!!
The title absolutely makes this poem. So funny.
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