Classic Poem

Oh, it looks too easy from out there, I think. We are all made of
different stuff. And, see, a woman, knowing it or not, constructs

her life in a manner that allows her to keep breathing. Or does not,
in which case none of this would matter. But some lucky woman,

no doubt, builds a life with high walls, thick stone and deep, with
maybe a moat, maybe a 'gator or two, or some no-faced pissed-off

thing that hasn't eaten in months and between laps is waiting just
for you. Another, I'm certain, sets up one great hall in which all her

selves merge endlessly in a vast sea of her-ness in which no self is
spared the flaying of its other selves. Ah, but this one builds a house

of many rooms and doors and the doors are hinge-bound but she
passes through the walls, and one of the rooms, the best room, is

soundless and dark, and in this one room the woman owes nothing,
not to any one, not for any thing. Nothing! A room, by definition,

free of debt, of should , of this is the way it is done , of Newton's god-
damned apple falling, endlessly defining up and down, a room of no

I told you so , of fuck you it's my poem , a room in which even this
small explaining defines its sweet occupancy, fills her lungs with air.