Childhood Home

I see the place in dreams now, but distorted

with M. C. Escher dimensions and

paradox corners, the six of us playing

hide and seek with each other like lightning.

As houses go it was small, each of us

bivouacked to individual pup tents, trying

like tragedy to avoid one another so as to

keep truth stuffed in our mouths.

Drifting through discernible doubts, we all

tried self-serving gambits and floundered for

validation among the dirty socks strewn

around the rooms, metaphors flying.

Yet when escape was possible, I was the

only one who flew, vain about my prospects

but slapping myself tender over the years

with guilt that I should have stayed.

But even so, the walls were close,

the loose boards too telling, and the world

smaller than the house we lived in, a

virtual prison within a prison. Now I know

memory to be a backward-flowing escalator,

soundtracked by mall musicians in silkwear

and lit from above by artificial lumens

casting everything in a sweet, inaccurate glow.

I am that unhappy being

I am that unhappy being,

waiting for yes, nursing

belief in preservation and

visionary hope, all through

the night.

I am that unhappy being

who picks fights with fate,

waits till morning to kiss

the feet of favor, and fancies

the game over all.

I am that unhappy being

in love with beauty and

cursing necessary darkness,

drawn always to lucky

laughingstance.

I am that unhappy being,

easy in my own skin but

powerless against phantoms,

gathering life and strength

from small morsels.

I am that unhappy being

who knows the ropes,

bans fears, bears the wait,

and apprehends the ends of

all journeys to be joyous.