why

build

a room

with things

intended to

permeate yourself

and the negative space

within it

when

you can

build yourself

and permeate

any room?

i hate

the stuff

around here

as in the lamps

which stand on

counters, nightstands,

end tables and floors

and too easy make

a psycho-analysis

of the owner

in contrast

of light/

dark

dozens of

marilyn plates

sit on wall shelves

and the existence of

an idol is always

disturbing

looking-up

looking-to and

rarely if ever

looking-in.

bookshelves

of tawdry

bestsellers

as nora roberts

and nicholas sparks

are a word vomit

savored by

a mental palate

trained by

pop culture

oversized sofas

with sunk-in

cushions and

a smorgasbord

of pillows and blankets

crowd the living room

in a family size

version of junk food

served to self

breads litter

the bookshelf top

a single fruit

sits in a bowl

the fridge is over-packed

with things not eaten

and the basement

is quintessential american

with an embarrassment of trifles

which cannot be thrown away

although mostly forgotten

because of disuse

maybe this is

human housebreaking

and the equivalent

of ourselves as pets

stewarding over

our own shit

for the lack

of otherwise

we are mastered

by our own emptiness

which gives rise to

consumerism and

and even relationships

rubik's cubing

each other

in the futility

of colors

to be determined

turning

and turning away.

i build

my home

in my heart

and for that

i am never alone

things

to own

and people

to love

are unnecessary

and best kept to

a minimum.