Three Rooms
Zachary Scott Hamilton

| i. |

I come up an elevator, nurturing my headache from a 1940's radio – with white paper wall under my armature, digging frenzied to a thin, upper realm of the infinity house.

A rotting, deeper into my mystery bird fray, letting moss into the canopy, chiseled with hair line intricacy of radio static behind the drop.

For a coin, I permit the puppets in a door, for a few grays and a few baby static lines, my hand to a thin edge, as it rounds and is rusty, climbing skies, rain as a pack of combs – puddled and falls, I step inside the Christmas vial of quartz coin and turn over the rugs, all roses singing liquid tongue and dancing plaid.

| ii. |

I sit down in Victorian slumber, wrapped in Christmas lights (pure meta circus,) for example: branch curtain, drowsy electric, woven from the window through neighborhoods, paper snow spattered six feet – A flat line of human negligence, the curtain flounder within pear, sea – A marching vocabulary wanders sticks, each inhale a pale gaze in the dark jewelry. Cornered in the chamber of haunted love – the kind of painted monument that touches velvet hands to the window and looks at the city to witness its exact nightmare, just to glow green beneath its eyeliner– Formulate, in waking conceived debris, fabric motion, threaded of sound. Pulling in on those men jeans ever forward, toward drunken collapse in the center of the red strawberry patch, and twigs they carry, forward through roots – enormous, and in the collection a stippled light

| iii. |

The ice cream melts down a rotating speed, entering the aloe Vera Gazebo. Three spines through seventy miles an hour melts it down her tongue, down her lips, and over the crystals of her chin, now setting down a sixteen ounce French horn solo and sliding lights that feel neon perfected – The slot machine of tulips, mustard language of conversation, between the whiskey bar and the donut stand we found tree top stools rising, I am falling in love with a young lady in the French horn solo. Old recordings spin Christmas lights, melt down her tongue in between her nails and onto her drawings. Between an old ladder, vines grow to the words EDEN. Behind me, a peach box full of birds, rakes, and shovels hangs –

| iv. |

Shy from the break of day, rug draped skin, this Norway raven infested window- Black leaves turn away the sand-tapestry, Afghans that the rental company gathered from evictions, and through earthen precipice, later, leaking dream and habit of the dawn, a logging road to waters' edge -

And, the writing is on the wall, a big black string that blooms from a source in the grout – shy from a wandering girl traversing away in sunlight stretched, in her black poise.

Shy from indications that fold away the eyes shy from the merging of a crevice, underneath an umbrella away, that is laughter–

A Raven doorway at the abandoned factory, wake from triangles and into the fog – future in the particles we enter living explorations, the infinities–

Shy from the triangles in the field, rosemary, sipping galaxy from white window, now leaking love more pure than the rain–

Two wings handle the perch, a nectar of Orchids, to the horizon, animals shake darker from foot prints into the past, lengthy watch streams and drip from the almond for filtered umbrellas hang as wings. Against liquid healer, roses for a forehead – A roller skate angel lets out a string of the rose, cancels out steps to the perch, petals the footsteps from black rugs – woven of the bow. The brick house rises from a sphere to enter new morning – Shy from dark steps that led the radiant laughter, to snapping twigs in lonely steps, rising downward, through the lathe wheel, eroded in trees.

An excellent mistake to watch these long stems into the perfect hour, the stray mathematics these motels weave. It is branched that house the deer, and strike away in dreams, and heating vents above their faces, blankets, girls stand in the basement. And in gold dreams, this bridge, coal painted, always laboring to make out through the night, fog entangled, we awakened again-

| v. |

Santa clause plays video poker, emerges into bar light – oxen eating banana's–

A continuum of dilapidated house, stored inside all distant, reclusive, and yet dinning memories –

Zachary Scott Hamilton grew up in Oregon, and spent many years traveling, where he began a fascination for the composed word. On occasion he writes for HOUSEFIRE, and his booklet IDENTIFICACION (authored with Brandy Gump of The Miss Rockaway Armada) won an AxP award, and can be purchased at Powell's Books, Last word Books, and Floating World.