Even

watching others
one's self is lost
at least my self

learned to give it
everyone can be this way
that is not true

easy lives and children houses
makes me jealous
even still

I grow old
my inside is the same
not sure where

eats a lot of creation
tells one to sleep
wish I were gone or free

would like to be more fortified

perhaps in the distance


-Lahmadaj

yesterday

was my birthday

not sure entirely about it all

woke up, as is the recent pattern

to the sound of my new next door neighbor's daycare business
the sound of very small children
singing, talking, yelling
and the lyricless voice
of an adult's kid voice
loud and solo
dominating the texture
verse after repetitive verse of three blind mice
and other nursery dirges

her voice louder than all
for they are tiny little children
drumming and clicking things

her voice sour and unending
wafting into my window
because they are directly outside
next to the house

her sugared and depressing
'YAAAAAAAAY!' of encouragement

demons

yes yes
some may say that the song of youth is a beauty

some may say

this is followed by her husband's
friend
grinding the shit out of a rusty smoker with a bristle brush
directly by my window

the high squealing rip of corroded metal
is almost too much for me

who the f. are these yohoes

i realize I am probably jealous

jealous of their newly refurbished house
a big house: attic, basement, backyard, kitchen, at least 3 or 4 bedrooms
multiple baths
for two 30 somethings
jealous of their free time to fix up the yard and create projects
to have guests in the backyard candle light
for wine and merriment

while i share a house with 4 other mediocre people
mostly inadequate and blinded
like moths
unendingly into bulbs
and a fifth lives in the basement
and our house is moist and moldy
and the rent is cheap (duh)
and I stay in my room almost all the time
other than cooking, shitting, cleaning, or leaving

decided to proceed to the park
else succumb to torment
of my current placement

oh at least the trees
the bird
the jellyfish

a turn of a crane

the quick color change of boat wake

the sun through clouds

my feet
back and forth
criss crossing

dig sand

another bird


-Lahmadaj