Mortgage Number Three

 Mortgage Number Three

Moving on and the movement stings

The aftermath of mortgage number three

Scorpions in the drawers of hands in furniture

Lifting and miss-living how on Earth did I get to this point?

Constantly shifting and gasping for air,

Roots never planted in a weed placed life

When was the fertilizer supposed to come?

Rain storms and state lines and tax returns split on pine porches

Raised and painted and all this mud piled on to replace it

Dreaming and leaving the dust on my face

If only the chasm had a space for debate

I don’t want this and I don’t want that

Undetermined and intermediate living in the middle internment

Asking and calling and all the leaves falling on a decade

Coming and all the colors bleeding from these white carpet feelings

Trampled and hard wood disasters with pop corn ceiling raptures

Pouring down in black mold and bifurcating fungi dancing

On my grave at thirty-one years old

Starting over and bending up from all this concrete mixed into

What I called love, back then and back when homes could be built

With a smile and a trust like a mortar that was bound to rust

And my belief has perished and calling Tangipahoa home

Like an invisible fence for this companion dog walking alone

In the Charlatan fog, America, America,

Street corner and sayings no longer said, there is a bullet in a chamber

And it is passed the flavor of cranium destinations for a residence

In perpetual compression of repressing the urge to blow up the curve

Of where justice pin balls through and skips some and ignores the dues

Paid and lies mortgaged, where is God in this free will porridge?

Mucked up with Tuesday night unaccepted phone calls and accusations in court halls

Choices made and numbers crunched a cashier’s check and totaled sum

Of all these tales spun to Rumplestiltskin’s gold, she cackles for a love sold

For security and porch and bald head like a cabana trophy next to whoop ass cans

And ash tray stands for what is Auga’s Will

Starting over and the mirror of was, living for tomorrow and not because

I accept and letting go wishing for the enigma of what I thought I had

Never gripping and all this sand in granules through fingers foundation laid down in the whispers

From an empty pillow to the left, quiet and speaking of blue-morpho butterflies

With open hands wanting a net.