Housing VIII

Where am I?

I don’t know.

Am I trapped in an apartment, bound and gay?

Am I wandering the woods without compass, orientation?

Am I flying away quickly, never to know man’s kind more than I know myself?

Am I tilling the field, seeds thrust into, plowed?

Am I loading large bails of hay, tossing balls?

Or Am I lying on my couch, besotted and being sodomized?
That’s where I must be, hiding in a closet, passed out under the table, 
Vomiting out the window, sick to the stomach in bed, 
Desperate for life beyond the malaise of metaphors.