room 102

My geometric eyelids are growing out of the mould

& dirt, flavoured with honey

                                                           & lemons.

 

Watching the clock . . .

 

No no, growing motion

out of faux-wood panels &                                            

          kaleidoscoped rolling

                                    carpet ocean.

 

 

Every door is an interruption, turning

off a movie part-way & immediately

starting a brand new movie

part-way.

 

Salt sounds pouring from hair

when i swish,                swish just like this.

 

Watch out for the clocks

rolling toward running toward               the light just like

resurrection              & coming back

confused in room 102 full

of unfamiliar eyes behind unfamiliar

shocked glasses the shape of lemon slices full of silk scarves salt & honey

 

& every door interrupts

the dark opens up

sensory overkill

every door

 opens up a tantrum of light

 

running from jane eyre & the alarmed clocks into a white nightgown trailing candle wax extended rays of winged ashtrays full of hallways full of burning down the lemon orchards slamming into sticky palms on a slick glass door

 

slam

 

till every locked door is a bathroom door

filled with striped shower curtains

& faux-brass doorknobs

 

& a very serious student's spiraling nightgown-candle-extravaganza pretending friends are fictional characters from Victorian novels locked knock-a-knock "no n-n-nooo don't come into the striped curtain" rolling bathtub-full of brass doorknobs unlocking the shocked clocks

 

Stopping

a movie               still             in the dark,

opening ears

to the talking & to the kettle

boiling away the dirt, mould & thick, thick honey-lemon drip.

 

Car doors are on their way with saffron tea & a safe trip

home on speed dial #6.

 

Twitching on a flower

patterned couch with an empty kettle

& a cell-phone. The regulated sound

tick/stop/tick

hanging from the wall.

 

                                                                                        "Are you there?

                                                                                         I don't see you though . . ."

"I'll be twenty

minutes, at least."

                                                                                      "Yeah, but you don't see me now."

 

Twisting fingers in heavy, sweat-slicked hair, & licking

leftover salt from lips. Walking

slowly through unfamiliar hallways.

Waiting for a yellow car-full

of fair meters,

& familiar eyes.

 

But you don't see me all lit up,

rhythmic hands keeping time behind the glass .

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