Calling Home

It stings.

I can't tell you what 

because you wouldn't understand.

My hands 


in their helplessness 

do whatever I tell them to do.

I am calling home.

Because I've run out of money 


the tangible things

I am crying

I am looking for a place to sit down.

I've heard sitting

is the new smoking.

Squatting is how

our primal ancestors

"sat" my friend says

dropping down into a squat 

question-eyes half-smile mouth open

the facial shorthand for, "Yeah?"

She is a teacher

and squatting is her new cause.

I am squatting now

to please her.

I feel ridiculous.

My rear end suspended an inch

above the ground I feel

the way a dog's ears and eyes

look when it stops to shit.

I am squatting 

and it stings

my quads

my unnatural body

so used 

to being unnatural

programmed to do the wrong

things eat wrong foods

drink wrong quantities

say wrong words

think wrong thoughts

think that I am somehow

a better person

then realizing that I'm not

tear myself open

while I close my

self layer after layer

door after


I am in too many rooms

I am walking

into the back of 

the painting now

they say that the painters 

deliberately make the background 

blurry make the bristles 

make the soft fuzz around 

the outlines of trees

make all the colors 

a little less brilliant

because that's what being far 

away feels like in real life

a little less brilliant

and I am in my house

in the deepest recesses of it



I am laughing I am crying

I am inching along all the borders

cotton blotting my body 

with peroxide I am not 

forgiving myself 

but I am wondering,

if this is my home,

where are all the 




where are all the people

where am I

and why is it so hard 

to find a door?