storage units in hell
in the frozen air,
we carry boxes of old windchimes.
everything is a downward spiral.
feathers fall like ash. in hell,
we make due with what we can find.
walk quickly past the forest of doors
& cover our eyes as we crawl beneath
the magnifying glasses
hovering close to the earth.
one thing about underworld
is you are not told how or why
you have arrived. instead
a machine spits stickers
onto your face. marking none of us
can read. constellations that glow
when you close your eyes.
i am a face of charted sins.
as a boy i remember stealing
at a church bake sale. licking chocolate
from my fingers as i kneeled
behind the plastic world.
all we want is feast after feast.
taking a flashlight out we search
the field of storage. endless square breaths.
garage doors sliding open to reveal
rooms of glass horses &
treadmill gardens. all items confiscated
from the residents of hell.
a guard will often tease,
"why don't you go looking
through the storage units"
as if your own were even possible
to be found. i not looking for
what i left behind though. i am searching
for all that could be new.
fill my pockets with black marbles.
steal a chandelier to hang
from a crooked fire tree near
my sleeping hideaway. today i find
a unit full of video tapes.
i know the traps of this world
so i do not watch them. in another
i find jars of teeth. pick out a few
that could be useful. in a final one
for the day, i find just a single bunk bed.
it reminds me of one i had when i was
just a child. the bed breathes shallow & ragged.
i stroke its arms & tell it to rest.
nothing can sleep here. not even
the birds who instead of resting
eventually just catch fire.
i plant two of the teeth in the warm soil.
kiss my thumb before pressing them deep.
imagine them growing into new fresh green
even though i know they won't.
wonder who out there stumbles upon
my storage. my accumulation.
do they delight in my remnants