My body this morning—
a disheveled high-rise in the 1980s.
Blood, phlegm, lymphatic fluid—all
the disparate wearied residents
trudging reluctant through its
Organs—online, but struggling
dish washers, sputtering
and spitting out their
proxies for day-to-day existence.
Bones—the rattling ductwork,
concealed by repeat-stressed and
of bored and boring drop ceiling.
Several lightbulbs blinking,
several gone out,
several more missing—
luckily not appendages or teeth.
are my viewpoints,
affiliations, closed perspectives;
poverty-stricken condition of
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.