Broken Lotto Games

My nightmares cascade in towers

in apartments with broken elevators

stairs and hotels of 70 stories

in ships with broken lotto games

So don't you dare whisper

of houses

with

gardens,

they have no gardens,

only stairs,

and more stairs,

white metal peeling plaster over pale iron,

blue, they always get me

a wool blanket with

white strands

And how can

how possibly can I live your life,

how possibly can I stand still

breath agape,

eye agape,

throat agape

looking at the desilvering mirror across

the kumiko, ranma, shoji?

Wooden boards that smell a clean damp

while my shoes creak the

Shou Suji Ban?

How can I know the smell of that raincoat,

his kappa dew that reeks of wisdom,

for a grandfather I never had?

How can I partake in the past so presently,

so heavily,

when it hasn't even occurred yet?

it's warm a sea-wind

breezes through the middle room, with a happiness only felt on the sheen

of a table that is triangular

yes, its a table

it sits on the corner,

in it gadgets of all kinds,

rulers, meters, screwdrivers,

they are not white, they are grey,

the seats in the car,

and soft, and old

like a Volkswagen that brought me to the park

with cold swings,

the weather cold, the canvas blue

it was deep, it was blue,

her hand thick, stocky,

with a bent part

off-white cashmere,

the fabric tall, and the swings

how can i tell you of the swings

i know they reside somewhere off the little pebbles,

with the blue flowers that don't exist

whispers, the Cthulhu,

off the cliffside,

smells of a salty brine with kind eyes

and i know the xylophone stakes claims

for a big leap

off the Bosphorus

yes, i know that,

the monster i am

my blood gazes colder

colder than the metal keys on that xylophone

colder than the whitened heart you beg for on that sleekand ruined telephone

and whenever I get profoundly sad I think back of the swings

i think back of the soot on the cold iron swings

do you realize what I'm saying?

I'm only remembering

and I don't think I had a chance of surviving if it weren't for the remembering