More Red, Until You Burn Your Paper. Poem by RIC BASTASA

this is the voluntary prison
cell of books and cases about
the lives of other people.

here we receive a good package.
here we are looked up to.
here we cease to be human beings.

the whole day the door is closed.
the noise outside cannot penetrate.
here my eyes are roving.
varicose veins grown on my thighs.
here i am an ascetic.

a little girl is asking what am
i doing to myself.
why am i eating alone?
why i do not know if it rained?

she draws trees using crayons.
her Dad posts it on the wall.
he Dad shouts at her and she
has no reaction at all.

nothing is perfect i say.
little girl you are suffering
that early.
and there is no hope for it
to cease.

i have so many answers to
your question.
the room is locked because
there is so much thing
to do as i eat alone as i
cruise in the lonely seas of
books as i probe on the
lives of other people, who some
of them have to be shut
like the mouth of your mother
who keeps your father insane.

little girl there is so much
to know about this world and
it seems that you are learning
it that early enough.

use another color for your
trees. Try oranges.

or fire, more red, until
you burn your paper.