gabinete caligari



my place is a mess, i confess,
a paean to the past.

filled to the gills, it
spills til it won't close
it overflows with
prose from pros i can't
dispose, even tho i know
there's no point, keeping this shit
in my joint; can't stop cramming
the cabinet full of crap, wanting
to stop but not, wishing they'd
made me a map for living in a crib
w/ a cat and the past; this filled-up
flat has hid it / is time to choose to
move or at least to lose some of the
too much stuff, before i come undone

i get it from the 'rents of course
who came of age in that other Depression
(the one that did have an end; Brother can
you spare some time sometime?). it was a remorse
source for them, who remembered when
things were scarce, to be hoarded when they had it,
enjoyed for an instant and then squired away for
rainy days that never came.

the last past away last year, with
no idea how endeared i am to them
and their stupid stuff;
the reluctant keeper of a vast
amount of crap
from the passed.



(c) 2000 by c.k.







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poem unearthed today while sorting through The Filecab From Hell.