the latent map, again

chambered heart the pieces of pie
each plastic triangle smooth and creamy
consumed by that devil or the ghost
who thought I was his brother in the
dreaming disguise the hotel discarded
in the subconscious town the one he
thought dropped from the latent map
the apartment segued into the house
of his memory the one with the basement
running through the many rooms
something not quite right in every one
chambered life the heart caught in its
lust for recognition or for someone's
desire but no one remembers this
unruly hammer smacking wildly at the
construction of these days the point
is still there, though, that one person
or another, still opens their plastic
container and sees the detritus
this chambering of being this wax on wax
remarking of one bright blossom to the
very next, covered in the nectar that
implies a kind of salvation who am I today
that I should break the hours into minutes
the days into hours, the weeks into days,
the chambers following each the other
through the basement up the stairs
trying to find the forge, or the bedroom
whichever one is truly meant looking
for that satin doll who's life
is like a poem itself her actions
all of a sorting she brings what knowing
I can reach into a focus showing me
the peeling wallpaper the ceiling leaks
the change that isn't dealt with these many
days across the desperate train ride
we are now on ...

somewhere then
the rest of the noise abates
into song the tin cans
clattering on the string
duke ellington in
the elevator