home is where the lights are off

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home is where the lights are off

I used to think I needed a couch

to be a couch potato, but living

in a studio apartment it turns out: you

can be a potato on just about anything.

that is to say, today I am a papasan

potato, swaddled in my mom’s vintage

baja blanket and nursing tears

of the kingdom until the blood drains

from my fingers. until all that is left is

a prickly tingle and eyes; half-drawn blinds.

I hit pause and rub screenglow into starfire.

when black/gold brightens I am my teen self

—that is to say, a mere spud—incubating

in the suburbs. laying claim to the coveted

corner seat and hissing at the first whiff

of a light bulb flickering on. epiphany!

a friend once told me they knew I was

(only ~half gay) because I favored the overhead

light in my kitchen. the salt lamp and purple

bulb suffusing but, insufficient. whatever.

home has always been exactly where I am.

where I can strip the day from my skin and self

-soothe into oblivion; don silversparkle cape

and babypink ballet slippers. official attire

of the extroverted-introvert. the dark libra. yes,

home is where I default to vampire and forget

to thaw out the chicken for dinner (a fuckup

that would still be fed.) how sweet, home! 

the ineradicable, the habitual, the choice

to sit in the dusky dark of day-end as indigo

paints itself ubiquitous. god, bless this

studio with your longest night—my halloweentown, 

my MCM dungeon. my 350 square-foot retreat—

where all the lights are off and all the stars are broken.