As
compared to say a flat of sheet rock, mirror, or awning
This
morning I feel like some amalgamation
Of
household entry or exit hardware-store commodities
Often
visualized, rarely commented on or perceived
With
any specific intimacy, the frames and angles of mundane
Are
for perfunctory standards of constituting a human
The
kind one passes when retrieving coffee in a bustling Monday workplace
The
crafted conversations are explicit to context
Injected
for this biped or that, but not this stucco-one
The
one with the cans of latex paint for feet and sandpaper cheeks
Eyes
imbibe with a sip of the innocuous brew without shift of brow
The
whole warehouse seems entirely pointless
Despite
the keyboards and the buzzers crowing
The
whole god-damn world can be summed up in the look of a woman
The
factories, the smokestacks, the carriage-men can all be made bums
Within
the manner of seconds breathing out into eons
Such
silly organs lungs are like playthings for switching opportunities on and off
The
alveolar sacs store the majesty of a fifteen minute waiting period
A
bit of that air sometimes never exits the lungs
A
man may breathe many millions of breaths, yet
That
speck of minutes refuses to depart like a clung dust particle
Pressed
to the extreme of blood, carbon and oxygen hardened
So
that one bag of processing in one’s internal air-factory
Is
forever decommissioned to inoperable status
The
scent of that room marauds into the others as a warning
As
this is what we risk when we inhale too deeply
The
operations will overload the filter; hope is too dangerous a toxin
To
be ingested without a blue mask, the film of mucous must thicken
So
that the cage of ribs does not rattle with violent coughs
To
shake the vertebrae and undulate waves of immobility down
The
nerves of the legs, tingling and numbing to bucket feet
Attempting
to pose as a worker, as if the mind can focus on industry
As
if man can beguile himself to see this crass pursuit as worthy of his identity
For
what is the faculty of man without love or at minimum the attempt at love’s
glance?
To
see, to hear, to bask in what sends that seed of toxin to harden in the bronchioles
It
is the very wanting of existence pressed upon our germination from egg and
sperm
To
all that a thought can bloom and so in the stagnation of factories
It
clots with these lungs bursting the plague vats of how one human can sabotage
another
Simply
by a conceptual existence, for the thoughts are in the damned-one’s mind
Which
percolate all annihilation; it is the processing of the oil and the turbine lubricants
That
the operator chooses to empower sentiments; for without this volition
All
enemies are feckless magicians with placebo biological-weaponry
Therein
one must know it is he who makes the lint into anthrax
The
elementary composition transmogrifies into gnarly oak gripping the blood
vessels
So
in, one can initiate this mutation, one can reverse it, given time, given
knowledge
Given
autonomy of one’s totality to recognize the source code we write to ourselves
I
remember the beautiful notion of sensing the kindred in the distance
approaching
As
if I could smell the pheromones of capacity, the cavernous glinting diamond nuance
Of
my utmost yearning on the precipice of contact,
Had
with the mere requirement of supplied hope like a token in a slot machine
Pull
for sequencing in the arrangement of syllables, sentences and metaphors
To
go spelunking into the evolutionary DNA of gender for rationale
To
explain such gravity as in certain instances science can trump will
As
in most humans are compelled to do, attraction is not a choice, but a reaction
The
electron is either innately drawn or repulsed by the arrangement of nuclei
Based
on what cannot be altered by circumstance, only by fundamental construction
So
in this iteration, the formulaic chemistry appeared like a comet on a solstice
Piercing
the rim of one’s vision tantalizingly adjacent to the glance of a poet
Captured
in imagination, reciprocated and then damned as the asteroid
Simply
bypassed the planet entirely, neither meeting destruction or curiosity’s dessert
To
breathe in that rare alien-element that pulsates in his lungs was somehow also
Pulled
out from the vastness of the universe into the orbit of this singular human
The
mathematics are boggling and yet believable in the instance as conception
Could
be justifiably convinced into stepping one inhalation away from pragmatism
Towards
aspiration that a comet-tail had a sundress, a camera lens and a writer’s pen
Paris
was alive once more, a lighthouse keeper returned to wipe the foul smoke of
Notre Dame
Baptiste’s
historical compensatory behaviors had recompense to reward
Passion
and faith in equal scale; yet the lobby is asunder this morning
The
chasse lounge needs upholstering; the glass is reflecting the ironic Sunday-azure
sky
I
am flabbergasted at the inhabitants of hotels, aching with a bit of shrapnel in
my lung
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