Yellow House

Under the green light, a green shade,
And in the shadows arms flicker.
A moth beats his wings to a funky jam
and disco rumbles from hollow stones.

In the sweaty night hairy human voices
breathe the hot confidence of knowledge
and youth,
sucking in air to make it magic.

In the john a light bulb dangles
with bald eye staring down
into the depths of human defecation;
and as time weathers on
warped planks grow wise with age.

Between black-on-white Rorschach walls
inked-on acid-like eyes
follow the lines of conversation
and smoke,
each wandering towards the night.

In stream-of-conscious-like sublimity
questions rise like bubbles from
drunken voices; voices follow
and honesty shines.

But beyond this beatific abode, hanging
behind a vague ambiguity,
a silver glint from the mind’s eye,
a knowing looms.

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