Bed.

I look at my muscles. They seem smaller. Weaker. I do seem weaker.
I breathe dust. That is why my lungs collapse, nearly explode, such is the feeling, the sensation of pain and the effort to describe it by relating it to some phenomena that most people should associate with great power, magnitude. I'm hyperbolating. I'm breathing dust. This room must be in its very original state of being. No one to the extend of my knowledge has ever cleaned here.
Dirt occupies the floor. Sincerely, it has not belonged to me in a long while. If the whole existence came to a question of belonging, there would be no bottom for the argument. No reason. The whole argument turns hollow.

The dessert was malicious, my dear.

Mindful of sand

a fingerprint scanned

never for the damned

and no blessed are in sight

Schism or a fight

need to adjust the light

someone just might have a slight

breeze of delight

And not until the clouds are

machine made can a single tree

set on a crusade

So loose-legged

the armed men stand

in surprise I despise

how they hold onto their land

on the chest

a heart distressed

when the rest

eventually laid to rest

And not until the clouds are

machine made can a single tree

set on a crusade

mysticism

In the absence of violence

                I felt

          a slight discomfort,     a snap

  like a bird’s neck

and every damn bird was dead.

In the absence of  wind 

in that park 

          I stood to grind

                          

               my teeth

that park or some other.

So (what) are we

So are we

leaves rustling beneath feet and

getting along with grass and with

worms that break through

the soil

and

So are we

stains on a shirt from coffee

some morning.      Sealed eyes

bricked lips and     breath

like thunder

and

So are we

3 a.m. quiz on telly

    on     mute

while the big  belly

sags on the

couch.   and    breath

like thunder

every breath    is   like thunder

and so

were we

the bricks that

got thrown at trains.