I have the head of writer,

                                       but the thumbs of an ogre,

burning because the keyboards have never known them,

I don’t know them.

It is dark in the garage and only the light from the dryer when you leave the door open allows you to see anything,

                               maybe I can get to Narnia from here,

I can probably get to Narnia from here.

The grass and the floor here  feel different then they did last week,

when I knew this wasn’t permanent ,

when I knew it wasn’t this shade of green,

all the music and the wine and the scars are not permanent anymore.

                    We will find fuller moons,

and windy nights,  and other moving parts,

                 along with more square feet and more room for mistakes,

                                                   along with so many swords stuck in my very own back,

I must have put them there,

I forgot they were there.

It is not the worst thing that they are there,

                                                                   in my back.

 The trinkets on the shelves, and the binoculars  I left on the top of a mountain,

I guess the floor feels different here , and the grass feels about the  same.

This place always plays the same movies, and these same mountains move in the same ways,

The stage feels sturdy enough but I can hear the audience  breathing,

at least they are alive, even if they are a  familiar  shade of green.

It all feels like glass to me,

the mountains,

the audience,

and

the movies,

cold like glass under my feet.

be careful during your monologues,

                                    and watch your step during intermission on your way to the bathroom. 

Remember your seat number, because I sure wont.

I am present for   the conversations but do not participate and the   talk of the choir is always  more important then what I have to say  but I can tune it out most of the time, and just focus on the television,

just focus on the television and be a vessel,

I am the choir,  and a ghost///////

I have the head of a writer, and nothing is permanent,

and the television is getting louder now,

like someone knocking or tapping on the glass that is so cold to me,

tap              tap                tap                     tap 

The grass feels about the same on this side of town.

                                                                  but I am still so cold,  and  I am still  made of glass,

I    will  always be the audience,

I will always be a lion,

                               and  I  will always be this familiar  shade of green.