The world can be too much:
Noise crashing against strained glass,
Faces imperative, immature, idiotic,
Too complex and too unsophisticated,
Death preferable some days.
My room, my fortress:
Solitude at the end of the universe.
Wooly scarlet carpet warm underfoot—
May still find LEGOs buried within.
Single window opposite entryway—
Sun bathes Oxalis on the ledge.
Queen bed at left wall, unmade—
Vessel of dreaming and sex,
Sheets twisted from restless sleep.
Diminished peppermint candle on nightstand
Next to Tennyson’s Idylls of the King.
Bookshelves from floor to ceiling:
Greek dramatists and philosophers,
Roman politicians, Eastern strategists,
Medieval theologians, Arthurian architects,
British Romantic poets, Irish satirists,
And hundreds more—
The world and its history painted with words.
Film collection too:
Primarily foreign, dramas and dark comedies,
James Bond and Godzilla.
No blank space permitted on white walls:
Flags hang proud—Irish tricolour, Union Jack, Saltire and Red Dragon.
Maps of the world—Eire and Albion, the Arctic Circle, the Constellations.
Posters of bands:
Arctic Monkeys, The Last Shadow Puppets, Counting Crows, Nirvana.
Posters of films:
In Bruges, Pirate Radio, Never Let Me Go, Calvary.
Banners—Ravenclaw, Baratheon, Sinn Féin, Scottish National Party.
Above bed’s headboard:
Framed painting, Dicksee’s La Belle Dame sans Merci.
Flat screen TV, wall-mounted,
Connected to PS3 and N64
(Gaming rare without friends, and never as verbose).
Stereo system nearby
Ushers the uilleann pipes and the bodhrán.
Closet stuffed neatly with dress:
Pea coat, denim jacket, flannel bathrobe,
Polos, sweaters, cardigans, hoodies of solitary colors (burgundy most prominent),
Whole jeans, torn jeans, chinos, cargo shorts, flannel pajama pants,
Belts, ties, scarves, gloves, baseball caps (University of Utah Utes, New England Patriots),
Wool socks, ankle socks, black socks, white socks, holiday socks,
A color wheel of boxer briefs,
Top-Siders, leather shoes, hiking shoes, running shoes, pink flamingo slippers.
Wooden writing desk at right wall a cherished shrine:
Simple cushioned folding chair helps the back,
Crimson HP laptop purring with frequent use,
Drawer filled with assorted treasures—
High school diploma, class ring, photo albums of vacations abroad,
Favorite albums, newspaper articles, academic awards.
Desktop lined with icons—
Alabaster Artemis on the hunt, polished teak Fudō Myōō,
Carved pewter dragon chest full of foreign currency,
Framed photographs of those closest to my heart,
The Happy Prince, the Mad Mentor, the Faithful Cat, the Autumn Queen,
Tennyson’s “Ulysses” taped on the wall over the desk,
Inspiration all, inspiration always.
Back of door covered
With Irish writers calendar and to-do lists,
Memos and humorous snippets.
Out the window, down in makeshift parking lot:
Black ’95 Jeep Grand Cherokee,
License plate UNWRTTN,
Dubbed Samuel L. Jackson—
An extension of sanctuary,
An extension of me,
Stubborn and loud,
A warhorse of the night,
Wobbly zombie stuck on the dash,
Ailing speakers still capable
Of drowning my soul in electronic loops,
It too defiant towards life.
Together, room and vehicle
Guard me from the madness of life.
A dreamer’s palace, a battle station,
Privacy for intimacy with others,
Privacy for internal strife,
Bastion of silence, repose and reflection,
More alive, more whole
Within than without.