My body this morning—
a disheveled high-rise in the 1980s.
Blood, phlegm, lymphatic fluid—all
the disparate wearied residents
trudging reluctant through its
paper-thin halls.
Organs—online, but struggling
appliances—coffee makers,
dish washers, sputtering
and spitting out their
proxies for day-to-day existence.
Bones—the rattling ductwork,
concealed by repeat-stressed and
yellowing ligaments
of bored and boring drop ceiling.
Several lightbulbs blinking,
several gone out,
several more missing—
luckily not appendages or teeth.
Perhaps these
are my viewpoints,
affiliations, closed perspectives;
the rueful
poverty-stricken condition of
my never-inspected
subjectivity. And yet, I can feel
new ideas stirring:
those wispy stray and
secretive ones—moths in the back
of some mildewed closet;
those scattered few
which are actionable—
all hard-hats, all cool shiny
boots on the ground—black roaches
in one of the bathrooms.
