There’s a back room rack

in this shotgun shack

where experience lies in wait

To be brung to the fore

come a knock on the door

from pressures of worldly conflate

And in hallway frames

expectations hang

which talents have yet to create

Frames devoid of degree

yet which aptly decree

to fools who would pontificate

Then there’s hope and ambition

on the stove in the kitchen

with confidence cooling on plates

And wisdoms gleaned fleeting

on breezes whilst reading

from a porch-swing just inside the gate

Now, granted a mansion

with arches and transom's

might seem a more pert starting place

But fascia’s may hide

many problems that lie

under legacies laid intestate

So, if this space seems rough

then you mustn’t know much

’bout how foundations solidify traits

’Cause it’s been pre-ordained

that come bluster or blame

this here structure will handle the weight

They mock minds like mine

label me a mad hoarder

hold your nose

watch your step

make room for camera

and experts who profit

exploring the horrifying spectacle

focusing on the accumulated filth

explaining it's simply an illness

sick sad pitiful delusional learn.

I become a condition syndrome

a collector who tried to hold on

to every person place experience

my precious treasured moments

now buried

one atop another

once carefully placed

objects of no use to be discarded

now they come with disinfectant

scoop shovels removing the mess

never pausing to appreciate look

bent on clearing destroying it all

tossing broken bits that were me

using latex gloves tossed in bins

until I am left empty and clean.

As an adolescent, my living arrangements were determined by where my folks resided. Their home was my home. The bedroom I grew up in was comforting. I call it “my bedroom,” even though it was owned and maintained by Mom and Dad. I had some leeway as to how I could decorate, but I needed approval from both for all major renovations or interior design changes. When I lived there, my parents had control, which meant they could filter out any negative influences or deflect the constant bombardment from the outside world. This enabled me to develop at a nurturing pace. The custodial oversight shrouded me in happiness.

The more I learned from others, the more confidence achieved. I reached the point after high school that the confines of my bedroom felt restrictive. It was time to venture on my own. I packed up the lessons learned for keeping my room tidy and headed off to college. Some material things were left behind, as is always the case when you have too few boxes and too much stuff. The next four years I occupied what amounted to a glorified bedroom but with full exposure to the diversity of society. I took the parts of my childhood bedroom and incorporated them into my dorm room.

After graduating, there was some trepidation, but I knew I had what was needed to continue exploring instead of returning to my parents’ house. So, I set off in search of my first apartment. The one I settled on was expansive compared to my two previous living arrangements. It was a scaled-down version of a real home. There was a kitchen, a small dining nook, a living room and my bedroom with an attached bathroom. After moving in, it became obvious that what I had packed would not fill up my new space. So, I started collecting what I thought was important to have as a freshly minted, independent person.

There was so much I didn’t know I needed. As a child, it was a given that dishes were in the cupboard and silverware in the drawer. The laundry basket was in the closet and the nightstand had a functional light. I had access to tools, a couch and a microwave. Attaining the title of “Grown up” I needed to get my own version of these things.

Being on a tight budget required weekly jaunts to thrift stores and frequenting yard sales. Through perseverance, I managed to find treasures. Like similar-minded, frugal souls, I relied on finding things others were willing to part with, objects that were once held dearly but now being let go so someone else could benefit from their use. I quickly amassed items. Some were gathered spontaneously, some serendipitously. My world grew.

I took in all I could, so my home replicated the comfort I knew as a child but now viewed from an adult perspective. Not all my possessions were practical. I felt it was important to buy a rice cooker. Despite my parents considering this purchase as “wasted money,” I bought one. I felt it was a smart investment. Never had one before. Don’t ever recall any family member ever owning one.

Instant rice was a staple in my family. I ate it during many a meal. But now, after emerging from my childhood phase, I felt the next logical step in the journey towards maturity was having a rice cooker. So, I paid full price for a top-of-the-line model.

Once I unboxed it, I couldn’t wait to take it for a spin. Upon reading all the warnings and instructions, come to find out, it requires ten minutes to cook rice (twenty if you’re using brown rice). My childhood staple, Minute Rice, as the name implies, only required a minute. Considering myself a mover and a shaker, I don’t have the time nor the patience to wait ten minutes. I had places to go and life to experience. I put it back in the box. I’ll use it at a later date.

My new girlfriend moved in; under the assumption she’d live rent free for the entirety of our relationship. Trying to impress her with my culinary skills, I offered to make dinner. As I demonstratively began taking the lid off my rice cooker, she interjected that she’s not big on rice. (That’s strange. I hadn’t noticed her holding that red flag before.) She prefers couscous.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to showcase my rapier-like wit, I replied, “The only time I ate couscous was as a side dish for my grilled mahi-mahi that I had ordered while vacationing in Bora Bora and listening to Duran Duran accompanied by Yo Yo Ma sing their cover version of New York, New York.” She looked at me as if I had contracted beriberi. She moved out soon after, so I was free to continue not using my rice cooker without judgement. From that point forward, I became selective on who I allowed in my apartment.

When I gained financial traction, I took the leap to being a homeowner. I got my first place. Now I was responsible for all the working of a house, both inside and outside. No longer would I be able to call the leasing office when there was a drip in the sink or a stain on the ceiling. Life involved maintaining a yard, gutters and driveway. I had seen my parents handle these tasks. I watched as they executed the daily responsibilities from living in a house.

Having my own home was empowering. I realized that it wasn’t a daunting undertaking. I parlayed the knowledge gained from my parents’ role modeling with the experience of living in an apartment to overcome any challenges that might arise. I felt I no longer didn’t know what I didn’t know.

A bigger abode requires more items. The possessions that filled my apartment were now spread out thin in a structure five times larger. Using my bargain-finding expertise, I went about getting more things to make my home feel like a home. My rice cooker was stored in the cabinet next to the dishwasher.

Now it’s time to downsize. The house hasn’t changed in dimensions, but it feels too big. I’ve got to jettison what’s no longer important and refocus on what is. Things that have served their purpose will be passed on to the younger members of my family as they begin their journey of independence. Unwanted or unneeded items will be put in a yard sale. I’ll ask five dollars for my virginal rice cooker. A great bargain for someone just starting out.

My mind as a house let's see....many many rooms...hundreds...old memories...new memories in each one...some I visit a lot...some I've locked...others I wish I could enter again but cannot...there's a building crew here constantly adding on new rooms corridors....they say we use only ten percent of the brain so I've got a lot of room to build....

I used to look out for ghosts,

in through many windows

I used to whistle different tunes

to bring the cells into view,

Spaces of me and you...

reminds me of a refrain

a song when heard in full

I hated

in monologue

because it could have been

really good,

"...Is this what you wanted..."

Littering the walls of my hall,

you can watch the hallway twist with doors opening and closing.

Like each step is a quick walk to a far descent until you realize the floor is sliding beneath you.

We're sliding down the corridor, information on buzz, whizzing past.

Characters turn roman, some romaji until twisting entirely into another language entirely.

You can glimpse the music, the twist of a dancer, and in one second... We almost meet eyes, before you slide by.

Never enough time to stick around.

We're skirting on by.

Grabbing the frame of a doorway, you manage to catch yourself on an empty kitchen entryway where the fruit is all plastic and your stomach is just for show.

We're here to enjoy the bright colors and paint the scenery,

but the food isn't for eating. The water faucets are all fake.

Because eating is for those who are starving,

but I have no hunger in a place where my body likes to jumble up health with an empty stomach.

Should we eat? Should we eat?

Can we?

Turn your head. Ever so sharp, and you'll run out into the hall, to find it tilting back the way you came. From the thousands of doors you've passed,

wondering what the shadow was and why it's in the back of my mind.

Wandering my halls like a sinister cackling human form with pearlescent white teeth.

Somewhere, a part of me that you cannot follow drags you back into the never-ending corridor.

I suppose we're in this Haunted House together.

Never quite settled on the rooms of many, but the doors between them are far and plenty. No place doesn't connect, and the reach is far because everything is a never ending travel between skills and hobbies. Honest work, grunt work, work work, and the work to hold my body together.

I suppose if you tried to leave, you'd find the windows sealed tight, where stagnant air can hardly get out, and doors tied shut, because I'm coughing out bits and pieces of myself, wondering how I'm still alive but trying to hold together.

Taped together with hopes and dreams, trudging on robotically, like the mechanics of my body never needs.

Feeding myself plastic food, on a yard made of dirt and leaves.

I suppose this is my plastic beach.

Welcome to my house of doors.

The place where the animatronic made of flesh pretends not to be human.

Enter my door through my thoughts and ears.

Float upon the greatest of all time imaginations and creativity.

Walk up into a space where everything has to make sense.

Ride on a roller coaster of history

Being made without a name.

Slide into a scene created by emotions and heartache.

Tip toe into a room that prohibits nonsense and drama.

Journey through my mind of

Simplicity of life.

Old memories are in the attic

The attic isn't small

But some leak into the upstairs

Still too fresh

To be stored away

And then there is a singular bedroom

Where a cat dozes in the center

Beneath a skylight

Where dreams shimmer down

The bathroom is next door

For nighmares to be flushed away

And a shower

For the most perplexing thoughts

Stairs spiral down

To the present

The kitchen is where the action is

Where new thoughts brew

And all is felt and seen

And then there is the door

Sometimes open wide

Inviting in the world

Sometimes bolted and locked

When it all becomes too much