storage solutions for emotional baggage part 2

When crisis arrives,
it's often in svelte boxes.

Generally it
needs loose parts
to become not-nonsense;

without invitation,
it reaches into the edges
of my brain,
shuffling and disturbing
odds and ends,

lifting and
divining meaning
in the miscellanea
only found
at the back
of that shelf.

Arriving unfastened,
mostly,
and held in place
by sheer tenacity,

words and
meanings of words
tumble from its grasp.

I hear my mom saying-
use your words honey.

If they could
be kept from falling
and rolling under
tables and chairs,
I would.

She also has told me to-
hold my tongue.

Confusing.

And funny that poetry
still came from
impossibly form fitting
tensions like these.

Memories never
fit
back into a box.

And sometimes
will not
fit into each other
either.

I have so many of
these moments
shelved with impunity-
an
as-is section

near the bathrooms
just around the corner
from the café

where you choose
between bitter truth
or mushy metaphor
for
your last loonie.

With little paste
to connect ideas,

every line
needs to have en
jambment
to make sense,

stressful that one thought,
potentially,
might never end...

The grammar of poetry
writing has always
been negotiable.

Entitling also.

It's purchase
often made
with words that
my ass is not really
prepared to pay for.

There are
just so many things
that do not fit
back into boxes.

Or on to shelves.

And when they come out,

like broken instructions
for living a
fixable life,

they avoid
specificity.

Storage solutions

instead of

problem solving.

Their intentions
masked and shadowlike
are troubling.

Poems,
forged figurative
and fearful,

not eager
to become prose.

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