homeless house

This knife sits much smaller in my hand

after so many years, the weight of it has lessened, shifted

the curve and massiveness of the handle is dwarfed by my adult fingers

hand, forearm, eyeballs.

the knives, pickles in a jar, sturdy cans of SlimFast, 

his kitchen stuff makes me remember.

I haven't seen these butter knives or the sharp ones with the red trim in over fifteen years. It's unbelievable that these objects still exist- artifacts
 not carved out of some false memory of my childhood-
imagery burned into my cells
 embedded in my bone marrow by some fantasy transfusion

in fact true.

here. spreading butter, cutting bread and meat in his house.

Seeing them now I feel relived

I feel bewildered.

my same heart thumping still

only certain dishes can be used here, the squalor the wreckage is wearing a thick coat, 

privilege

the infection infects itself insular breathing it's own hot breath back in

a stale hot cycle.

                             our existence is too terrible 

our eyes 

I shower scrubbing off the turpentine workday. 

My skin is older

a stranger in the tragic tub shaving adult legs

hands and feet with black nail polish, a woman notices 

the water pressure- the architecture of the bathroom

it reminds her of being poor, being a child, having thick long ratty hair

wet and cold down the child back

put my head in a laundry bag and shake it

cover it in cotton ball fuzz

numb buzzing around my nose, inside my teeth. my ears hum.

I am wet in the water 

   I try to remember outside of this space

I say the word  

      
           human 

out loud.

I try to morph the piece of trash child into the shape of a human woman

I feel bewildered.

I feel homeless in this house.

sleep. just go to bed, leave the woman body here

I am in the bed at seven pm

being lucid in this place is the ultimate nightmare

So Many Years

a familiar suffocation

it is this that make 

Settling

 and 

    Survival 

run rampant.

I hear coyotes

I close my eyes and go to them

a guest at my fathers

horizontal again

like so many times before the terror takes over the blood, the organs, seeps in the bones
a stew of adrenaline.

fight or flight fight or flight fight or flight fightflightfitflgtflitigiftt

heart is pounding, breath is audible, it's cause I am under the covers and it's hotter here, take your head out
relax, let the sweat on your face dry, go to bed like a normal woman your age and forget this ever happened.

forget it.

Outside this window I can hear the air. In the darkness bright orange fruits, ruddy avocados hang heavy, they are cold at night, they sleep like human hearts, heavy, pulling, alive in the blackness.

Raccoons run across this roof. I hear their little feet above my head. I am hungry for dinner, but I will stay here, horizontal till sunrise.
It's the feeling of being skinless, chicken meat raw, without the skin, fleshy, wet and structureless
that's about as human as it gets here in this house. Pushed up against the unstable mountain side, with citrus and cacti and wildflowers. A house shell that holds one man, eight surf boards, one motorcycle, five automobiles and years, decades of sadness

the mud slid before, once killing three sleeping people here. Right here where I am laying
 horizontal now.

have you ever held a bird in your hands with it's wings flapping so violently
you think they'll just snap off?? It's scary and urgent and messy.
my heart is like that too:
a dead skinless blob of bird
and
a live desperate flapping of a bird

it's dark and i can hear everything outside the lightweight door.
fumbling, delusion, hopelessness