in crisis, the crowd speaks at once

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
disaster struck

Submitted: May 22, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 22, 2013




No job means no house and no money, no house at all.  He has no house, no land, which means no house.  I don't see no house.

And in front of no house, even though there is no "house", no house tours will be given.  This is what the crowd waits for. 

No house? No house. 

Who needs a house anyway?  Therefore build no house on it.  No house was left with a roof, of course, no house is complete.

So, a final plea: go inside no house.  Since no house can stay firm without wind in the house, 

are we no more

than the symptoms of a broken nose?  Not funny! 

This injury was also called a 'Flawless Finish'. 

Broken nose or no broken nose, or titled, 'Broken nose, glass eye', whose face is it anyway? 

Look, your nose is broken, he said.  Freshly broken. 

To refer to our injury as 'the aftermath of a broken nose' is useless...won't be my last broken nose, either way.

Or perhaps a fairer title would be 'Broken nose, and detached retinas.'  Still, you know as well as I do, a good broken nose never hurt nobody.

A broken nose, pity.  We were so worked up i forgot all about the concussion...

The theme: UNCONSCIOUS! But my unconscious made me, not the other way around.  Clearly my unconscious has been the collective unconscious, for a moment or two.  Found naked, the unconscious mind of the female is a conspicuous inspiration for this "fashionable" unconscious espoused by the waking so-and-so.  And the patriarchal unconscious seeming more deeply imbued with sleep than ever,  the depth of their state equal to their disdain.  An image of unconscious politics getting out of hand.

I do think he's unconscious.  'Found unconscious, shot dead' as they say.  As if the unconscious is a sort of predicting machine

dreaming on lost teeth and failure...

You can buy the Bad Dream and it is surprisingly affordable.  Bad Dream being something I had, not something I kept. 

Yet, don't I crave it, wish it ALL was a bad dream suffered bloodlessly by another body and forgot?  Think of this:

a bad dream is better than a good one, less cruel, at the very least mildly educating: we can wake up

and embrace insomnia.  But you will read like a bad dream.

The only bad dream I remember having were the years

in their slow roll, repetitively slinking to shadowy memory

like gaseous planets to the underside of the sun.  A bad dream does not survive in the light.

Bad Dream, if we didn't love you as a profile of the past, 

remain unconvinced that nonsense is the real bad dream here,

then who's the liar, you or i? 

Us or them...

Versus.  The dead return to life at the very mention Action versus the alternative.  In the end, it is all of us versus

homelessness, injury, mismemory, nightmare and neither side well-armed or even sure of intent...

Man cannot see. And when you cannot see 

I can see you. 

Never assume because you cannot see

that the crowd is too thick.

 Perhaps you cannot see all the faces.  Breathing down necks, shoulder to shoulder,

unable to collapse.

i now realize that we are such a shape, the NoHouse.

© Copyright 2018 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.