Check off
     all these belongings from a list
that I wrote in thick blue marker
on a cardboard strip I ripped
    
                    There's a book I lost at 26
                    with dog-eared pages fading gold
                    16 pens, 45 cents
                    a dented tin of birthday cards
                    unnumbered rolls of mints

Sit back
     on the carpet in the heat
take another sip and press on
to the bottom. To the green.

                    There's a look you had at 28
                    with bow shaped mouth and arching eyes
                    15 hours, many road trips
                    your crooked tooth would slant your grin
                    Never saw me fall right in.

                    And today I pace apartment floors
                    or sit amidst a box flap hall
                    halted breath, an iron hour
                    clad in sweat, still packed away
                    in taped up, cardboard yesterday

                    There's a photograph, from 2010
                    atop the slippers that you gave.
                    Raging smiles, orange lights at night.
                    The River Walk in wintertime.
                    And it's my favourite pic.

But the 21st was moving day
and all I've got are pickled dreams,
an empty house and waiting boxes,
"Tear my guts out," so they say.

                    No fight quite like a duct taped box.
                    No companion like your face.
                    No shrink quite like an empty bottle.
                    No wake-up call like moving day.

to live for tomorrow is to
live within your small rectangular box
and to cry about the smaller things
even when the box
shows you glimpses of bad things
and the rotators and coolers
grow tired and beg for death

and breathing for another day
is the action you treat dearly
with tomorrows oxygen in your body
and the worries of belt straps
and bad shoes
and overturned glasses
running through your blood like
the rage of a toddler
whose toy has been stolen

and you will move through the day
and see the little things
but without wonder
and the big with agitated disgust
and the prices and movement and sounds
will unnerve you like
the sitting box does when it
throws dead skin at you
under the cover of warmth
and the comfort of silence

and if that box is a home
and the world is alive
then you will be alone
and earth and wind will not bend to you
nor will the songs of those
who cry outside of the structure
who wail for a cause greater than
the man who ate the last donut
or the dictionary being the only book
in the hotel

and now love
now life
now the joy and tears that yield to nothing
and the chemicals that move us to places
we can never describe
they can wait for you
because your light bulbs haven't come yet
and if they had they wouldn't be turned on anyway

what have i to do with these grips,
these squared, white knuckles
holding tight to handle bars?
what have i to do with these empty stares,
eyes void of truth?

these "fill-in-the-bubble, A B or C, music only reaches the ears" types of humans
attempting to tell me how to carry out my existence,
attempting to tell me the most efficient
practical
mindless ways to die?
attempting
to tell me
to show me
the most rewarding ways
to die.

what have i to do with these sculptors
who try and quantify the rain,
who try and evaporate
the sun?
what have i to do with these ideas of perfection, of what is best?
these assumptions of false fulfillment,
these preludes to orderly, institutionalized chaos
and contempt?
what have i to do with all of these cardboard boxes
which cannot differentiate between being filled
empty
open
closed
soft
rough
dry
loved?
what have i to do with those who cannot detect their own storms,
their own energy waiting to explode?
what have i to do with one shade of blue?
what have i to do with feet that cannot move,
knees that cannot bend?
what have i to do with white houses
black cars
trimmed bushes
a front porch?
what have i to do with stationary?
what have i to do with these wings
unless they are free to flutter?
what have i to do with structure
with corners
with average
with plain?
what have i to do with boredom
with settling
with insignificant breath?

what have i to do with waste?
what
have i
to do
with waste.

Society forces us into boxes
PLEASE CHECK ONE EACH:
[ ] Male                  [ ] Female
[ ] Straight             [ ] Gay
[ ] Child                 [ ] Adult
[ ] Black                 [ ] White

Check
Check
Check
Check

My existence cannot be simplified into your boxes
I am more than society's simplistic ideas
I am more than the sum of your boxes