And The Problem Is

nevermind
it’s all caved in
and I just don’t want to restore the walls again
I would rather be rained on
aware
that once I leave this rotting palace
I can never return
and so for now
I just want to tape up my blown mind
I want to enjoy the stars
on the ceiling, the red lightbulbs
and persimmons and the crushing terrible
strength of my teeth. I will allow the snow
to decorate the stove. Moths may nest in my bed.
Let the maggot thrive; I’m going to live in electricity
and I want you to see it all. Thus
the walls have become windows
I somersault and drink flames
and point hysterically at creeping vines
I grow oaks in the bathtub
and wash myself in rubble
I commune with the garden spider
I squeeze my brain until a seed pops
up through the ceiling chasms
into outer space, and
against the star-sick dark
the seed unrolls green tendrils
toward the unbelievably distant
other minds