standing too long
work of a lifetime
take it down
strip off safety gear
step in close
breathe what’s toxic
finger lines of least resistance
find the fissures
wire the charges up close
lick them like a lover
blast though the heart valves
blow out the memory plaque
spatter the bio over the big picture
reduce expectations to rubble
spit on what remains
piss on your ruins
let bitter weeds take root
admit the snakes
In the Sewing Room
All of it is familiar but none of it is known;
I don’t know any of their names.
The daydream figures of the dolls on the shelf:
Indian princess, mammy, sweater girl, silent
Movie star miniature with corkscrew curls.
I don’t know how they came to be here--
In the sewing room/guest room looking down
On this bed with all these swollen, lacy pillows.
I don’t know if they are companions or collectibles,
Given as gifts or picked up at rummage sales.
I don’t know if they’re décor or confidantes.
But they must be recollections of this home
That I pass homeless through. I do not touch
Unless I receive invitations, and they are mute.
Robert F. Gross gave up his apartment, car, and his possessions, except three suitcases of stuff, in October 2013. He's been wandering about with one suitcase of stuff ever since. He writes, directs, performs, and is on the lookout for meaning.