Hiatus

[tectak]

Hi amaril,

 this is a nice one to crit because it is quintessentially a glimpse in to the thought processes of the character...and as such, allows the crit no wiggle-space on content. It is what it is. So, a clean and objective look at the "words" and the use of same is in order. Here goes.
Hiatus


Sweet beer is a lampshade askew Potentially a good opener. Direct observation but surely a gestalt...that is, nothing more to say...it is understandable
in the corner of a must-scented Some confusion here...musk-scented? mutch-scented? Typo?If typo, then you SHOULD have caught it.
room, blue for the evening,
with a blue stained sofa borrowed
years ago from one of mom's
work acquaintances she hasn't seen in years.Cantilevered sentence. Way out over its C of G. Needs to be cut up and cauterised with punctuation. Psychological connotations of "blue" are fine; sadness, depression, loneliness etc....but not happy about the physicality of two blues, one of which is a stain which shall remain unexplained.
I mean a poem is like a dreamDo you mean it? Is it? How did we get here from there? This is jumpy. Some connective tissue missing methinks. (more to come) You have not established a contra requiring you to begin with "what I mean to say is...".The " I mean" is redundant. So " A poem is like so many dreams, I can't remember most of them". Why first person? Well, you started it with " I mean...". Switching between first and third person is not a crime, but in a poem with more I's than floccinaucinihilipilification you are well advised to stay true to yourself.
in that you don't remember most of it.
Or the moon is like the brokenTake care. This is close to havering. The moon is NOT like the broken record player in any rational or...perish the thought....poetic sense; UNLESS you tell me why. Which you do not.
record player I got as a Christmas gift
in middle school, which was not
broken but delightful when I got it
and which now looks cool as ever
with its crocked up lid and needle,
with its dust, only it plays
records wrong, a little too fast
or a little too slow, rending it unusable.Hmmm. Well, as some glimpse in to the characters thought train WAS the original (and increasingly, the only) virtue of this piece you are getting very close to blowing it. Rendering is better than rending. You google it....then correct the word, then re-write this cameo so that things follow on naturally. It is a strange thing, but free and musing thoughts tend to link one with another...it is only when we THINK to generate connectivity that things loosen up and fall apart. I believe you could make this work if only you would consider where you are going before you set off. Let's not forget that this is supposed to be poetry, prose or not...and a broken record player which is useless may be a moon to you but if I can't see it then it's a new moon coming. 

False plants curl in the shadow
of the windowsill, and the dog with an odd
occasional grunt rests on the rug
at the foot of the stair.Stop. Think what you are writing. Some of this is great observation but I just don't believe you. False and artificial are not fungible, and why false anyway? What is the shadow of a window SILL, is this THE dog with an odd occasional grunt as against another with a rare yap.
 "Plants curl, dead as plastic, in shade on the sill;
 the dog grunts, in the way that sleeping dogs do,
curled up on the rug  at the foot of the stairs. " PLEASE NOTE! This is how I would go at this, but it is YOUR poem. The rhythm is not set or any more compulsory than rhyme, but you just know when the tweak is an improvement...if it isn't then don't. 
The typewriter I rarely touchAgain, same problem. Is this THE typewriter you rarely touch...there is another one??? Or " The typewriter, I rarely touch it, rests beside me on the desk...."
rests beside me on the desk,
loaded with paper, gleaming in the lamplight.Nice imagery. I can see the white paper, the chrome bits....and I can feel the redundancy and regret
I've written some good poems on that machine.
Or the drafts that later became
good poems, or the bad poems remedied
bit by bit on my laptop until
they became not-quite-perfect
but at least themselves. Sorry to interject here, but the words immediately prior do not make sense....though they nearly do.Years ago Dreadfull enjambment. No need for it.
this was the desk in my bedroom, and over
the years it hasn't changed.
It is red mahogany—blue in the dark—
covered with scratches and cup rings.
This is the same house, rearranged.Very nicely observed and sensitively portrayed. You have gone typewriter, desk,drafts, poems, bedroom, house. It all follows on. This is how  like it. I am glad your desk isn't like a broken Greek urn...don't get ideas.

Cold moon tomorrow.
I mean December's full moon.
I've got work, and also
I think I'll lose my mind.
Just a little. In spring I'll move out.This is the best stanza so far...and it stands on its own merit. Just drop the "I mean..."
Leaving my parents and sister, and
most of my things, until my parents also
move and my sister goes
to college, and then this place
where I sit, so familiar in its proximityNot so good. Bad english. familar in proximity? Hmmmm.
will drift forever from my life Drop the forever word
and become the stuff of dreams.....oh NO. To END on a cliche.....yikes!!!

Some good stuff, some bad. Inconsistency is the problem. Did you write this in one go or over a period of time? All it needs is a little sensitive looking at. I gave it my best shot but you can do your thoughts more justice than any crit.
Best,
tectak