in attempts to fill my room

when it's too
quiet my bedroom 
becomes a mouth
whose throat is just getting
wider & wider--
deeper & deeper-- 
a trench at the bottom 
of the ocean gulping down
more & more gallons of salt water--
a tongue stretching out like 
a highway for me to 
make my bed on--
hollow breaths echo off each tooth
jutting from the walls--
it chews me up-- 
molars on my ear drums-- 
grind me into a piece 
of silent air--
it bends my spine like
the axis of a feather--
when i can't take the
quiet anymore i usually  
lay on my back & draw
storm clouds on my ceiling
using the crummy eraser on
the back of my number 2 pencil--
smudgy & grey &
i blow off the little 
pink squiggles so the cloud 
can take hold & start to break
into a storm--
it makes the sound of static 
on the television &
it pours down all over
my bed & my bookshelves until
the spines of my books
come off like overripe banana 
peels--
i give up all your words 
& fill
the open mouth with snow
& rain & static
melting into the carpet--
i get a waste basket & try to scoop
them back up before 
they all melt away &
sitting on the floor of
my bed room in a sopping
pile of misplaced punctuation
& separated similes
i cry the kind of cry 
that fill your whole mouth--
the kind of cry that 
marks the yellow
stripes
on the highway unfurling
in your throat--
from the melting words
i make a poem that doesn't
sound like a poem because
it doesn't rhyme--
but i don't like poetry
that rhymes anyway
& my poem is about
the street lamp outside
my window & wanting to pluck
it out of the ground like
a dandelion & blow
all the light out
of its head so that
there would be a field of
a thousand street lamps 
for me to look for you beneath--
i wipe the storm cloud off
my ceiling & find a dry towel
to wrap myself--
when you think of me walk out
under the street light &
peel off a layer of shadow
so i know you were there--
outside it starts to rain
& i open my window & 
the silence rushes out
of my room & meanderings 
down the street on 
cat haunches--