tear down the house
that I grew up in.
the walls are off
white and
dirty, baby
pink.
we stained them
with splatters
of yellow,
much like
a goldenrod.
there are
musical notes
etched into the
bones of this
decaying creature.
there is
canine culture,
barked and
howled into
the carpet with
great force.
there is the aroma of
sweat and
flesh from
working too hard
pouring out
from each
creative
living cell,
each creative
loving cell.
alcohol reeks from
under the rugs and
the grass was
always greener
under that spot on
the deck.
the walls were
falling off
white and pink and
yellow
into the foundation
of my childhood.
we had begun to
deconstruct this
brain.
we were about to
dissect its innards for
selfish peace of mind.
it had been filled with
poison and with
an abundance of
tension,
known to kill a man.