the Room is Smoke

Smoke has filled the room.
Surely the vegetables are filled with carcinogens.
Everything is downtempo and that’s alright.
We have only a finite set of breaths.
I venture to hold them at times
to relish the feeling of verging on death.
I practice at the School of Evanescence,
where we study the expenditure of living
like we’re dying and discover we have little
to say, ergo we go soft upon the damp carpet of leaves
in such a lightness we leave no footprint.

If you are not accustomed to the television-regarding world
no need for constant conversation
commercial interruption—
How is it that you could want more than a consumerist could?
I want it all and I want it all for everyone. Real bad.
But it’s not working.
I must be tired.

If every channel could hold a dimension
and each dimension had several truckloads
of buckets—buckets in abundance on every station—
then we may have the amount of buckets required
to alleviate the ocean. And even more shelves
to store the dirt.

If we tuck all the stones away into drawers
or treasure chests from cartoon environments,
then where might we bury them?
Will we be able to hide them well enough
to where no one could find them
or wonder what might have happened to such a thing
or eventually—generations hence—
the significance of a wave or sediment?