Tuesday, December 15, 2009

The Greyish Room

The Greyish room is an indeterminable color.
There is a fog, as thick as the earth
that hangs on the walls
in the air and onto the floor.
The fog sweeps in from the gaping hole;
that chasm in the ceiling.
The occupants of the pink room will, on occasion,
bring their argument of day vs. night
into the greyish room
and scream and wave and point madly
at the crack in the ceiling,
each trying to cite the hour
as should be made evident by the skylight.
But they both know the fog is
just
too much.

The mystery of the room's color,
of day and of night,
fade together into the fog.
When the house collapses,
and all the shingles and lumber
and brick and paint are reduced
to the earth,
The fog will hang still in the shape
of the gray room
It will be a new shape we have not yet seen
we have never really seen the room.

Maybe we'll pretend to be architects.
And try to build each other again in the fog.
This time, you say, the blueprint will include a roof
in all of the rooms

Thursday, December 10, 2009

The Terra Cotta Foyer

We picked the colors for the foyer
very.
carefully.
And off a strip of similarly arranged shades
of red,
I couldn't tell the difference between Venetian Wine
or Sangria or Carmine.
It made all the difference in the world to you.

The paint stuck to the wall, I thought,
whether with vertical or horizontal strokes.
No, up and down! you cried.
I corrected myself and re-coated the patch of wall.
The next day I bought you flowers --
half for you,
half for your walls.
But the color scheme was off.
Still, you took them and offered a vague thanks --
half for me,
half for yourself.

A Cardinal, bold, once ventured into the house
through a stuck-open lower window.
He perched atop a picture frame
fluttering his wings appreciatively,
admiring your sharp eyes and aptitude for visual design,
puffed up his feathered chest
and began to chirp a song (was it our song?).
I couldn't spot him, and figuring he must have been trapped
asked for your assistance.
Your eyes fell to him immediately
as though he was a red amongst whites.
You don't notice much, you said.
I brushed it off with a laugh.
After all, that was back when we knew
we'd have the rest of our lives to notice each other.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

The Blue Room

The blue room is not really blue,
It was actually once the color of cream, or sand.
Or something like that.
But the walls have turned blue here and there
they are made out of bruises
from all the places you have hit me.
I spotted a patch of wall near the closet yesterday,
it was still the color of the shore.
I rubbed my hand against it several times;
it was the only piece of wall left
that didn't hurt when I touched it.
When you came in the mostly blue room,
I tried to hide it.
Standing in the way in desperation,
I raised up my arms like a meek shield.
But you hit me again, like you always do.

I don't know why I tried.

I turned around to look at my last treasure.
My last pale island on the wall.
It was as I already knew.

I don't know why I tried.

The waves already rolling in,
blue and swollen,
swept away the last of the room we painted together.
And now our guests will walk in and say,
"I guess it was always the blue room."

The Pink Room

In the pink room there are two beds.
I used to think they were side by side,
but they aren't.
One is nailed to the ceiling,
the other nailed to the floor.
All the blankets are stuffed into the crack
under the door as if someone had forgotten.
Forgotten to remove them after smoking
or after a fight where the screams
and the bruises
were muffled.
The pink room used to have paintings
but they have since been removed and instead
there is an imprint of their rectangular bodies.
Whether from the light or from the smoke,
I couldn't tell you.
But I can tell you the name of the child
who, upon realizing the uselessness
of discolored patches of pink wall,
wielded a fine tipped brush
and painted those ghosts of frames into windows.
One shows a bright, bright day.
The other a dark and nearly starless night.

I hoped maybe the occupants of the opposing beds
having screamed all the world to each other
would stop fighting and become fascinated with his masterpiece,
but now they just fight over whether it is day
or night.

Monday, December 7, 2009

If God was in Every Room

On Tuesdays and Wednesdays and every other day, God sat in the corners of rooms. He was the meek salesman at the department store, he was the tired security guard in a folding chair at an art museum, and he was the driver you could barely see in the car behind you (it was a blue sedan) on the long ride home. He played these roles because he couldn't interfere. He couldn't interfere because those were the rules. Those were the rules because he made them up. He was allowed to make them up because he was God.

People would walk into rooms so tired of seeing God, and they would scream, but there he would be. Thieves couldn't steal and killers couldn't kill. Lovers couldn't make love. Instead they'd drop their treasures and their guns and retrieve their clothes and curse God.

Why God? Why aren't you invisible? Let us have faith instead of the darkness you bring into every room. Let us watch the light touch the walls instead of dwindling at your sickly eyes. We will write songs to you and sing them within stained-glass halls. Kill for us your son but please just let us be.

After a time, they stopped believing he was God. They started thinking that perhaps they were wrong, and maybe they were the Gods. But he killed some of them on Thursday for loving each other. So they all believed he was God and they all stopped doing wrong. At least this way, they all got into heaven.