Strange beds:
some made perfectly, some sheetless,
some just a dirty matress on the floor;
these were always my favorite ones.
Strange rooms:
Some shag carpeted, some bare and wood,
some colorful, some warm in winter,
some with the
paint crumbling effortlessly
forming a pile
of unswept chip dust in the corner,
waiting for months on end.
Strange windows:
of varying shapes and sizes,
some with curtains and blinds and beads,
other cracked and bare,
missing shards of glass
in the middle,
but all of them looking
out onto
the forever changing landscapes
that marks the time here
as much as anything else
I have ever known.
Strange faces and bodies
that I have called
friends, family, lovers, and yes, enemies;
and always the strange face
in the mirror
in the bathroom
that was never
quite mine;
perhaps I am guility of looking
too hard, too often.
Without trying
I have walked through many doorways
I never expected to,
but I never really entered the inside
on the other side.
I got caught,
side-tracked
somewhere in the between.
Moments came
and I lived
with the certainty
that this was it.
But now I've given up
that kind of thinking, or,
rather, feeling;
I no longer make paintings
in red and blue and white.
And so tonight
another bed
another room
another body
of this life
is waiting for me
to finish up what I'm doing
in here
and close the door.
Somebody else's rug
somebody else's photos,
lamp, a clock...
But my own relief
for I know my role,
I've written this play
before.
And just before
she turns out the light
I suddenly can feel them:
An impermanent blanket
filled with my vertigo
and awe that she's
wrapped around me,
And the ocean
of someone else's dream
breaking inside
the pillow
beneath our heads.
7/15/06 - Longport, New Jersey
1/28/07 - Los Angeles
