just words

i haven't left the house for two weeks

and the people are starting to wonder

deadbolt nicely tucked into the frame

a quaint bag of rice in the barren cupboards

no more coffee

no more toilet paper

losing pages of old journals with each flush.

today

was the poem about mt. hood

and my love for the outdoors.

i haven't left the house for three weeks

and the people are starting to wonder

the calls have slowed in frequency

the ringer, becoming a forgotten sound

like a heart monitor

having a visit with death

i scan through my memories

with a mag light, trying to illuminate

some common thread of my existence.

maybe its the people,

or the places i have been

that put me here in this solitude.

some extravagant force telling

me to stay here for a while.

keep the blinds closed

who knows if the sun is peeking

over the pasture

or if its drooping

into the hills.

i've stacked all of my furniture

in the bedroom

so my living room is empty.

hardwood floors somehow collecting dust

the heater comes on again.

the sound whooshing through

my palace, keeping me company through this.

i haven't left the house for four weeks

and the people have stopped wondering.

the food is now gone.

but there is plenty of water

to sink into.

the indoors

I keep my blinds closed

because outside

there is a world

bloated with uncertainty

I know inside

things could go wrong

the toaster catches flame at 4 am.

or maybe the toilet overflows

shit into my living room.

or the food goes bad.

something.

outside. though. fuck.

you just don't know.

for instance, now

i look out my window

and across the pasture

is a lonely white horse.

not really up to much

but counting the mares he's fucked.

etc.

maybe in an hour

a jet will carve through 

the sky

maybe, probably not,

but possibly

it could potentially

hit a southern migration of 

canadian geese

lose control of both engines.

perhaps the plane, and its cargo

falls like a clay pigeon

after the 20 gauge clips

the edge

eventually spiraling down

wing over wing

crashing violently

in that quiet pasture

again, not likely,

but just saying

maybe the stallion puts

out the flames with his 

huge cock spray.

maybe he saves some lady;

pulls her out with his

proud teeth.

then maybe, he lays into her.

I keep my blinds closed

to that madness.

unfortunately

my mind is fucked.

more present than ever

is the image of that tired, lonesome

horse

getting his louisville slugger

slobbered

upon.