The only photograph that I possess
I stole from Google maps. A blurry shot.
Despite new paint and siding, this address
sucks all I am into a tiny dot—
all light, all matter—as gravity warps
stars into singularities. I ought
to find myself in there, behind closed doors,
drinking a jar of pickle juice. Nope.
I could be out walking the dog, of course,
Peaches, pausing while she poops. I hope
that I’m not falling down the cellar stairs,
killing Kyle, or cutting my own throat
in one of those ridiculous nightmares
I never have. I never dream. Really,
I never sleep. I’m too busy upstairs.
I will be busy for eternity,
peeling the wax paper backing from
a red decal—a circle—carefully
applying it to my window. How come?
To tempt the firemen. It screams, “A boy
might still be up there—burning in his room!”
That’s me. Young Lucifer. When I deploy
that red transparency inside my head,
Flames engulf the world. “You must enjoy
destroying things.” That’s what my father said,
receiving a wrecked radio. I disagree.
I can make fists. I make my bed.
I manufacture ice. And look at this
crayon monstrosity: a pink igloo.
A house. My home. I build where none exist.