This House

1.

This house has a life of its own.
Heat and lights come on,
water's hot,
all schedules set 

for electricians, plumbers and painters
and those who make
the grass in the yard grow greener.

Squirrels and birds use crannies for nests
as do small ants
and termites (in the past, if we’re lucky.)

Then there are leaks,
dry rot, and plaster that grows
its own and particular moss.

It's a wonder this house hangs together
when a strong wind blows.

2.

This house is a lot like my brain
that turns on and off; and sets up the times
when I sleep and wake
being worn out with dreaming.

New thoughts appear
right out of clear summer air,
but a name won't come
that I know as well as my own.

Sometimes my brain
is a yard where railcars are switched,
start off on unscheduled trips,
and do not come back,
but are lost in congestion and traffic
that sounds like rain.

3.

This is the brain
that goes its own way, unexpected,
that is not arranged or managed at my direction
and can cause a wreck
of private
or public proportions;

that once said "shit"
when such outburst was inappropriate,
in the way that farts
in church are not only crude,
but rude
to my way of thinking.

Who is this brain that thinks itself independent,
overrules what’s wise
and what education instructs,
for a short while stored
and, then, absolutely, ignored?

4.

I know I can be embarrassed when in the mirror
I finds somebody looking out
that looks like me,

except for the look in the eyes
that's an early warning:
there is another inside that resists control,
and, truly, continues free,

or if not in my body, then in print,
if just to see
how far in the end it can push…
and is also strong,

caring little for right or wrong,
less on means, more heavily on ends
that define the life I am living;

more intent on fun and less what others might think;
much less on food
and, more, yes, on sex and drink.

5.

This stranger I see in the mirror
is myself,
as real as the one who wears pajamas to bed
and wants, more than anything, to fuck;

prefers to run around naked
and believes effete
anybody who sits for a haircut,
bleats like a sheep
and is never asleep in my head
while my hair is cut.

One self is trimmed and trained,
the other wild,
who chafes at any suggestion he's still a child;
insists he is old,
has been present for generations.

6.

Then, how can these two get together?  Fact is they don’t
and won’t.
It’s the human tension
always present in the civilized world
that cannot be controlled by force:

by police or soldiers or sports,
all of which abort for a time,
but do not contain:
hence prisons and policemen,  and bombs,
and unceasing warfare.

Let me tell you this, this foolishness with “touching”
is right, but it will not end
while men and woman support it.

If you think not, take a look at advertising and styles;
at entertainment: whether movies or music or books.
Bottom line, sex sells
and those who have money buy it,
maybe paying directly for it, more likely not