My central nervous system constitutes cubicle panels.
I am trying to be as wounded as the open sky.
The moon phases unphase me. My autotrophy alienates me
from other forms. I am what I eat, and like Big Mike I’ll be immortalized
in a sallow syrup, banana republic. But there’s no substance
in self. This background in Buddhism informs my scrap/salvage
yard investments. No man is an island; this here’s a sandbank.