311 California Street

I once lived in a two-story palace in Gospel Swamp
with Her and our two little girls;
it had two stories and two small bedrooms,
with a place to make a fire and a piano by the door.
and when the sun burnt I built stuff out of
wood,
taught piano to children for a solid $50/hour;
and when the moon came out, I drove through
the black arid desert,
playing my blood-soaked piano, serenading the
late night leviathans and big-bellied sloths,
hoping
the songs
the piano
the organ
the night
made some kind of sense to the red, laughing beasts:
and the tunes I played with bloody claws, I slobbered red
on the black and white ivory keys
of my drunken piano.
after the show, I walked through the seedy desert towns,
where the milk is sour, forgotten,
where the children play with rusted sharp objects, and with
loud
awful
bangs.
and I listened to the songs of the Mother’s cry over
the night’s prodigious clamor and now abducted
Children
and their
Will to be Weird.
then I always returned home to her and our two little girls, our two-story palace with two stories,
two small bedrooms,

that place to make a fire, and the piano by the door.

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