vellum wipers for a better room

28 hours packed in layers of privilege
on the edge of smog filled capacity

surrounded by 18 million breathing souls
assassin motorcycles, tyranny transports, suicidal proxies,
assorted verticals dating stone age alongside naked madness

the situation privilege, becomes part situation, part institution
submerged in clouds of exhaust shards of eyes
arranged in abandoned crumbling egos
snapped empty engulfed in a religious wall of pesticides

vanished to an asylum for the criminally insane
labeled iron residue struggling to extinguish itself

this is not sympathy
this is plaster faces against a wonder to-be-alive
hand-to-mouth indecipherable
undesirable tapping; “it’s not the system it’s the contrast
boxes of fate, address sisyphus”
pulling back sheets of room service
to reveal a constant sea of surface