What makes me different from the leaves?
The loud volumes of television sets?
The unspoken sand
who learned to deal with overpopulation
thousands of millennia ago?
Or the adolescent who fails so often
to look in their elder’s eyes?
What makes me different from the mother
who hast prepared bread for her children?
Or the bread ritual itself –
the gathering of yeast,
the gathering of flour,
the hands covered in human skin
covering human veins
that carry the blood
to feed the muscles that beat the bread?
Or the man who beats his dog?
What makes me different from myself as a drunkard?
Or myself when I was three –
entranced by vastward expanding sundowns
of overflowing orange juice and orgasm?
I drink a bloody mary.
I watch how the salt consumption
raises the veins in my hands and feet.
I rise from the sentences of blood pressure.
My head is throbbing, “take out the trash”.
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