I am afraid we have lost the keys to the floodgates
can you please come back another time?
We are running from one end of the corridor to the next,
rushing to close the hip high of water crashing
where it was not supposed to crash.
Irrigation occurs here one room, one room at a time,
my mother shouts me out the numbers
before the water comes gushing from one room with the tidal
eccentricities of the whole atmosphere in one room,
in this weather-defying tourist location -- charming, I hope?
Commander, commander, let me know
before you knock upon my door, with this need for
directions and redirections of the mood in this place.
Our ancestors' portraits are a million phases of the moon
at once, scrambling the stages of life cycles and
uprooting us from our neighbourhood so we float
modern, post-modern, aeroponic.
She does not hold them in her hands
before she slaps a splat of plaster over
when she dropped a stone-statement and
it shattered that tile in the floor.
Now grinning pearly white teeth, saying she's fixed it, she's fixed it
hurry up. Once more.
And I run because neither good nor bad
the pattern of closing one door to open another,
rinsing the hallways of memories and multiple histories,
it is the way I can claim that I live, on my own, under my own sigil.
Father, father, watch me now. Father, watch me now,
watch me as I hold my ground,
I hold my ground, I shut the door, I turn my back
to the outside world of strange familiarities,
and face the familiar strangeness,
watch me now.
I pray my agnostic skepticism
drives me to plug all of the unnatural sinkholes
sprouting between damaged cupboards
and broken plaster walls.
This is my samsara, and I will gladly stay here
if only I could put together one more
altar to compassion.
We must look insane from the outside,
I know we must look insane from the outside,
only she doesn't care how we look insane from the outside,
and I'm realising that neither do I, and neither do I.