Erik Lomen
Gerrit’s House

My father
rescued old stories
onto magnetic black tape
from the dying

This is my art
it’s been passed
down

far

inside

Books fill every wall

from entrance around
up and down
to exit
from floor to ceiling
cats and
dust
bowls,
cups
coffee and
Gloucester water
Ascending stairs
floating piles of yellowing
papers

 

 
 

squeezed between the books
are Thorpe drawings
paintings and
framed letters
from poets. Each room
is strewn
with paper
bound, stapled,
tacked up, rolled,
stuffed, crunched,
and folded
into categories
of aging years
of interests, obsessions
building a tender
brain who’s still
trying to find
his typewriter among
the monsoons of
uncountable walls of books.