when i look at these 6 backsides of my containment
pallid, smooth, sometimes inlet with boxes and screens
i think of all the uselessness contained within this space
the sick, filmy memories of sleep and thought and procrastination
the moronic reading of unmemorable books
the disassociated meanderings of an ignorant mind
and i wonder, if this is 'my room'
what does this say about my life?

In an overture of dismay
thoughts swell and disperse with rythmic intention
careening left and right, falling away to grander ideas
silently and provocatively weaving an intuitive membrane
atop a foundation of bitter anxiety and apathy
a whirlwind of conscious engagement in the mind of a slovenly snail