I miss heaven

then I think about what its for...

then I'm watching mucus being influenced by dust,

spit celled by detritus on a dry road,

a fast dehydrating route between two towns I didn't/don't want to stop in.

I know the drunkenness of disbelief:
i) bouncing off objects;
ii) trying and failing to move a weight;
iii) reasoning to a crash test dummy;
iv) eating a small portion from an edible bowl;
v) knocking up jokes to the disdain of mutes.

I don't know what it would have been like to have never heard,
   when any words strained me into a pretending that pride could later march into the courts.

I couldn't care about tomorrow when I am as convinced as any other resistance-of-the-past,

nothing so heroic as martyr, just a bad advertisement for tough meat .

this isn't me,

of course,

I am some nothing,

narrating,

cool breezes don't remain effectual for my eternity,

but this might be a story worth acting in,

one where my laugh falls from my skull into my stomach,

one where I finally see myself die, if not because I'm an interesting character, but because I made the transition into one: somewhat plausibly.

one where the audience had left or never arrived and I was shouting so loudly I hadn't been informed.