Does It Have A Title And If It Did It Would Be ‘Name’
At ‘The Start of Something New’
I open my eyes with difficulty
like they were pill bottles.
In my book-shaped bed
my limbs hang out like bookmarks
and ‘The Opening of Doors’ begins.
I hit my head on the fridge
and give myself a bruise as cringeworthy
as badly titled writing.
Oh, ‘The Windows and Air’
are so intense on days like these,
when the eyes rattle
and only end up spilling on the floor.
And then ‘The Dogs’,
which take on the form of overt symbolism,
devour the scatters, like ‘Crumbs
Of Aspirations’ being tossed down
to the poor ‘One Unholy Sunday’.
My house is called ‘No.3’
My name is ‘Sloppy Grammar’.
My lungs send ‘Overworked Breath’,
like a chimney-sweep, up my throat
as I spout alternate names
for the days. No, nothing
is no bigger than some nothing,
and ‘Philosophy Only Gets Me Far Enough’
to ‘Conjecture’ that ‘An Empty Space
Means Far More’ than a tacked on
zipped up superfluous phrase. But is talking
to yourself like ‘An Empty Speech Bubble’?