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a six inch man walking through a city of 12 foot doors

the music is sliced and pasted together so I cant make out a beat , how
many different languages

or is the sound inside me, as if im buried in the street and reading the
pressure waves

against my extended flesh, hearing the mewling stars

in a world where we can jump out of airplanes and usually survive

in our church we become adults by having a rib removed, biting a fruit
from a forgotten time or planet and standing so close to another for
half a day our faces stick together and change

like forested hills turned into suburbs

Give thanks for instant fire, for two thousand songs in a pocket,

my car will tell me when to turn, its always summer in the produce section

today im the doctor, yesterday I was the machine that fills the plastic
bottles with water,

tomorrow morning the bathroom will be in the other direction, I’ll get
out of bed

and sink through the floor into a bus 10 seats wide

like pouring a gallon of liquid into a square foot of ground and feeling
no moisture, seeing no wet.

the clouds have been replaced with condominiums