Indian Blanket Fort

I want to be pensive.
I want to be defensive.
I want to drink coffee and get an ulcer,
staring at a wall that keeps getting closer.

I like maudlin violins.
I like modeling violence.
I like looking through dirt on my window,
at a ever-sliding city in perpetual limbo.

I don’t throw spoil milk out.
I don’t fly kites.
I don’t pick up phone calls.
I don’t smile nice.

There’s a darkened hallway
with spotted parquet
you have to walk down
to get where I’m at now.

I’m crashing around like the sea,
just as big as I can be.
I’m as white and vast
as a pirate ship’s mast.
(When the wind blows I inhale
the rotten stench of chasing whales.)

I am an Indian Blanket Fort,
the light on the porch,
the star in the North,
the girl in port.

I want to be restricted.
I want to be unlisted.
I want to crack and then escape my rib cage,
put an oil well up in my Thomas Kinkade.

I like these clouds.
I like this shroud.
I like beating my head against the computer,
while feeling my fecund soul becoming neutered.


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