104 E. Main Revisit
The pet mouse in the cupboard we lacked the heart to kill is long gone.
So is the ageless onion skin wallpaper, with it's hint of a print
and stain from old glue, mold, years of cigarette smoke,
and what was probably several lard-based kitchen fires.
Gone are the buckling boards, the crumbling dry wall, the scent of soup beans, books.
There is no more cheap wine.
Gone is the couch no sheet could redeem that we searched through for loose change
to walk across town to buy cheap cigarettes with the hope the free beer girl was working.
No more the door of revolving women who cooked and cleaned for us
who looked to domesticate and mother us, love us and smother us.
No more nights sitting up sharing the community jug and talking about poetry, art, and life.
Gone is the small plaque of the torah on the door frame that bid us,
whenever we left, to remember there is a vengeful god.
All Too
O, hills with clouds rolling over like a drunken lover,
this rain will not wash away the stigma
brought on from years of profane neglect
at the hands of cosmic middle managers.
Each and every Sunday, self-proclaimed preachers
spew sloppily prepared fire and brimstone sonatas
to pious congregations of empty pews,
cursing comfortable beds, mini shirts, the NFL.
There is no dogma that will combat this American ennui,
born out of forgotten troglodyte urges:
latent lizard brain impulses like the one that insists
the sun and the storms clouds have nothing in common.