My cells fall to the floor
faster than tiny beings who
cling to their feathery existence
like they melted to the surface,
a thin, translucent film.

Huff and puff
and I could blow them down,
let them briefly feel
the gravity of direction;
ignite electricity
from alligator clips under skin,
jump-starting a roledex
so they can find pain
and call it up.

“Hey, pain, what you doin’?”

“I’m fucking your world up.”

I bring the hammer
down on my floor
and indent leather in my chair
like the iceberg in the valley.
I sag and bulge and protrude
and fit into nothing but
tarps over boulder piles.

My heart cries fowl
and my bones splinter;
my tendons carry their burden
like moving crew and a reclining sectional;
my lungs push organs and oil
out of the way to yoga life through
the blood, thick and runny.
I am like a mobile mountain
with an appetite
for other mountains.

If all I am is a weight;
if all I am is a number or a failure;
if all I am is this measure…

I will own this measure.

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