Waste—High

Stacks—
on tables, on shelves, and on floors,
of books, and mags, and of papers;
recent or new, aged ten or more—piles, they become less safer.
These papers are used, less ‘reading,’ more ‘leaks’
of ceilings and sinks, piled paper for weeks.
And each week a new mag—and bags, many balled,
and stored in bags, within bags, and thusly marked for:
clothes, materials, and “saved” on a chair,
in more bags, always slide right onto the floor.

Covered—
this house, got be in with dust,
and dust within webs—to clean, someone must.
To store all this stuff, there isn’t much room,
while seen here and there, an occasional mushroom.
To absorb on the floor, all gray, they become,
the papers, just left, and the sore sight of sum.
To trip and fall, backward, fight-or-flight,
the more grateful I am, saved-by-bag that night.

Collapsed—
from rain, weak plasterboard;
Like walls, they held and hold
black mold, and mildew, or so told.
Add trash bags: more toxic fumes;
one window open to nix one small doom.
One ear open, to hear static crackle,
on radio: the lightning—need to cut these “shackles.”
The rain, when enough, keeps awake, then in sickness;
to no sleep, or little so, or sweat under thickness.

Run-off—
the water, all orange, uncertain,
on a chair or a bed, the plastic or curtain;
to cover your head, need more insulation—
a fan, nearly taken, one of large circulation.
Holes,
in the roof, or in one’s dumb head,
to live and remain, in this house instead
of earning or asking, for place of new stay,
to save this man-child, one lost in his way.

-I’m still that man-child dying to live elsewhere.
Literally dying, jokes aside.  Well, I’m screwed.
…There have been other posts pending, prepared,
…a long page of poetry.
…and other sites failing.
…and Columbus Day in the way.

(Insert Dilbert screaming here.) GAHHHHHH!!!!!

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