Lament

I lie in light trying to forget, I wake
in the dark trying urgently to arouse.
Wild adherence against a mental Polaroid
stirs the scent of fresh paint rolled unto
Roman pillars belonging to the house I
grew in, the words of love absently
overflowing from my patriarch’s lying
mouth, a skintight grasp hesitates in welcoming
Barbie’s slutty residence into kid-approved life
by his overbearing wife.

They are not here, my mother and the vagina-
addicted sperm bank; to pull the blinds introducing
the moon's morning self to my disheartened
perception every weekday's sunrise. Even

in dream, there are no situations
to be relived, no kindergarten cardboard
boxes of orange juice to drink again, and
no Chapter 11 documents to be filed; I never
stood remote on those marble tiles belonging to
my Israeli father, remote in emotions, and hugged
those Roman supports goodbye. The valiant cherry
brick fireplace warmed the house only once.

Two discourses hum in my Jewish ears; unorthodoxly
maimed by holes, one too many times. Their Israeli-
Iranian fusion of fucked guidance has left me whistling
unaided. Made by and addicted to unalleviated laments
daily, I am whole; a residue of once opulent,
spitting images.