Hayome

Home on the range,
Home doesn't change.
Leave one home, take another,
Home doesn't change.
Homes vanish and accumulate.
Home on a farm, home in the city,
Buy a bigger home when baby suckle titty.

Home, the rowhouse, home, the house,
Home, the bowling lane studio apartment,
A narrow dead-end alcove
In a warren of a island that's home to
One hundred thousand score hares.

I saw a picture of a home today with mold to the ceiling and a wet magazine on a waterlogged bed, which did not look like King Oliver sounds.

I gave my home away with its Irish sunbaked-yellow walls and
blood-orange trim, which bleeds into the yellow beelow.
It bleeds up to the ceiling, too, as though intelligently designed.

And I took my home back.

The walls are bare, spare some chairs,
Most of the walls are white.
White walls are for everyone,
For the next tenant to paint or adorn.
But one room is home, where I sleep on the couch.
The Irish sunbaked-yellow paint
Is thicker now for memories and songs and sentiments
It absorbed.

Love lost
______Bonnie Prince Billy
___________________failure.
Pot smoked
________Mobb Deep
________________leisure.
Woman slumbered
_____________Sigur Ros
___________________tension.
Moves considered
____________ Ravel
________________ moon-eyed dreams.
Solitude embraced
_____________Coltrane
___________________ bliss.
Souls disappear
___________silence
________________rage.

Je me deplace constamment.
Chez moi n'existe pas.
Je suis partout toujours,
Et partout est ma maison.

Home doesn't change.