What heart have you claimed
in making love in a mad house
where every smile is intent
pigment is detail in defining
Here time is a landlord
always on his way with eviction notices
to kick you out of your own body.
But the greater trick is knowing when to leave
or knowing surrender
to permanent winter
that freezes all that is left of our
which falls away in the bathroom down the hall.
We all hunt for a new source for our failures
which takes the form of rubies in the pants pocket of idiots still clinging to a loser's
It's an easier move
to vanish into our rooms
on the other side of walls
from shut ins who write themselves out of history
or dance behind drawn shades under the thumb of wasted hours.
To you who spend those hours in rooms
tucked way behind section doors
all motion stops
and the mind becomes a dead shark
floating in space
with no bite left.
What is lost
is knowing all depth
with no chance of returning to the
That's where the sun is
That's where the life you once knew
continues to move in all directions
with all its faces.
It was always about method
There was no style
To their exit from the streets.
Their eyes become fading receptors
Which always take in the images
that flash across the television screen
As imitations of the life four stories
and the roaches take on the skin of comrades.
Each thought shatters with just one touch of clarity.
They (the shut ins) now live in rooms
As vacant as a roach's intent
Under the floor boards where there are no stars.
Do you know beauty's final curse
and where it ends
as it fades into another sleepless night
or do you rise above those failures
and waiting rooms
where I sat with lungs
filled with saline bags
impervious to holy air
like jelly fish in the coral sea
only to disappear with every fleeting hope
of getting out
Matthew Abuelo is a writer, professional blogger and award winning poet. He has two books out, Last American Roar and Organic Hotels, both can be found at lulu.com. He also as a third book out, The News Factory which was released by Plain View press.