I am ripping up the carpet
I am breathing ancient dust
I am coughing on the miniscule mites.
I can see the cracked wood.
I can see the ragged slivers next to the stained wall
I uncover raw plans unfinished,
No bright shine.
It's honest wood.

There are castles of cobwebs.
There are dead roaches I murdered gleefully.
There is black rot.
There are ancient stories
Under this carpeted mask.

I am listening to Tori Amos.
I am reading Walt Whitman.
I am rolling the word "sinew" over my tongue.
I am hammering & sweaty.
These tools are my own.
I swing & strike with certainty.

I am handling sharp objects.
I am cutting through the dirt.
I am tearing up the piece where Circe sneezed blood.
I am watching the new cats dance on the bare spots of floor.

I am making straight lines with precision.
I am sucking up the dross.
I am getting quite dirty.
I feel quite manly.

I am sweeping the remainders of the painful past away.
I am ripping up the carpet
With great glee.
 

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