by Shaina

There’s a nostalgic thing to entering
a house these days.  All of us belonging to
caves carved out of decaying siding, sometimes
graves of pissing cats or protection from
the grey weather.  We dwell in dim rooms:
small, scantily blanketed places for sleeping,
fucking, rolling loose joints, or being the
walls.  When there’s silence, there are
voices yanking or softly laughing or sitting
with their balls hanging out of their basketball
shorts.  The mosquitos call us blood brothers.  If
there is a circumcision of establishment, we are
it.  Foreskin houses, it takes longer to find
the kitchen.  Closer in from the grey, maybe.  Makes
a person wonder if Plato drove a Benz (and who
was aware of what) when it sleeps in socks against
dilapidated radiators.  In my dream,
I had a Le Creuset pot.