The Smell of Burning Wood

I live in a two story brownstone house
Hidden in a grove of oaks

A mad artist splatters his bleeding art
From the attic window
And clouds float in and out

A fire burns
In the basement
The smoke builds up
And sneaks out through the keyhole

Kodak pictures float up and down the staircase
On wisps of silver wire
The colors fade and clarify
And spill out onto the porch

Broken algebraic formulas
Beat repeatedly on the bathroom door
Waiting to be flushed away
Along with all the other useless bits of information
Kept exclusively for conversations with star struck
neanderthals from the midwest.

A melancholic violin
Quietly weeps in the kitchen
A hotdog dunbathes in the oven
while drinking warm lemonade.
And an extra crispy drumstick
plays with the faucet
as clouds float in and out.