Whenever I Get An Idea,
A Light Bulb Full of Gunpowder
Appears Above My Head
through the window
at this moment
an unsettling sight:
all over this neighborhood
made from genuine and authentic
tan suburban afternoon,
houses are dismantling themselves
in slow motion
you can see it
debris rising up into the sky
everywhere you look
beds, dressers, walls, sconces,
sinks still full of water, roofs, chairs,
everything and all else that isn’t everything
floating up into an overcast
the color of an unplugged light bulb
so when the salesman pounds on my door
and rings the bell at the same time,
what am I supposed to do?
supplicate? listen carefully to his pitch?
appreciate his enthusiasm?
why doesn’t he notice
what I can see plain as day out there?
aren’t there more pressing matters
needing our attention?
if, from here on out, it becomes necessary
to live in that inclement, vibrating and emotional hospital
where the people who can’t think right anymore
wind up spending the rest of their lives,
I want it to be my decision.