all houses have stories

My house was built
On a bed of dead leaves
Fallen in the autumn of '84.
The workmen's' boots crunched in the piles
their sickly sweet cigarette smoke
Mingling with their breath in the fall air
Faces and ships taking shape in the fog
and taking off for a better place.

new world

early morning intoxicates me
like wine nor gin ever could.
my body is alive at the possibilities
existing in the dark out my window.
i can still hear the bugs
gathered like pilgrims on my roof,
i slip out through the window and stand.
no queen, no king,
but a disciple, bowing before the bzz of the mosquitoes
my arms and legs sacrificial meat.
katy dids scream out their methodical clamor
and i bow to that too.
a firefly passes by
and i almost fall off my roof, stretching to pet it.
it's soft glow is all the light we need in this new world.

i have no poetry now.

it's been too long. :(