A perfect house

Poked. Pricked. A parable for belonging. A vehement bandwagon for the begotten. I belonged in no other. In the all over. In the continuum I banged, staring at white walls for a vision. Saw battleships in doorways. Passageways in potholes. I was a visitor. A lampshade. A saddle of wounds. Doorways were a spectacle I could stand in. A rod of conditions. Thunder. The sketch of a horse. Drawing of a woman with frozen elbows since the talent stopped growing. A house without books. Except my books. A wooden door. The screen door. The door was knocking faster than the spaces could contract or expand or slice. A slit. Squeaking linoleum. Patterns of brown. Velour lime green chairs in a room with light maroon carpeting. Color was a platform. Rhythm was inevitable. Life was to be gotten over if the living could begin. I began to rock the steady. Start the laughing. Hit the sack. Suck up the juice. Sneak boys in the window because trying was the fun part, then they were expecting. Then they were there. A story. A memory tossed around. I didn't have any pets. Midnight. A leg on the windowpane. A stain from throw-up on kelly green carpeting. It was as far as I could crawl.