The Blood Pressure Ode, XL-59

What makes me different from the leaves?
The mummies?

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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