Pretty little window a poem by yosh dow

No windows, no doors, still trapped.

Painted, no, better yet, stained lumber that had been re-purposed from one of West Baltimore city’s many abandominium, ex-crack house, current crack house, current stash house, squatters squat. Reclaimed wood used to trim around a crystal clear window with four square panes and two symmetrical and identical intersecting lines. The walls are an easy mustard shade of yellow. Paint splashed all up on the stained wood carelessly. Details.

Details get lost in the multi task. Details: judgment of one group of nuances against another, thereby deeming one more important than the next.

That’s if you grasp the bigger picture.

That’s if there is a bigger picture.

That’s if you’re picture has a frame…

Our picture isn’t just a hole in the wall with duct tape around it, resembling the transition of perceived spatial boundaries associated with two individual occupied zones.

What was forward, where was my direction I thought I was cultivating.

Usually just going, I’d always just been able to chug along. Have there always been good reasons, great reasons for me to roll on.

Forward motion.

Hell, any kind of motion.

Sometimes.

No times.

Lifeless. Careless. Dickless.

A Lot less.

.jd

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