The Tubes 

 Along the quickly narrowing line of worldly engagement, sitting up, back to my pillow with my head nodding -my hand has something to say.

 

Without censor, and just too drowsy to care, a scratch and scrawl of something- scribbled on cheap cardboard.

 

At first comical.

After a 200, one has to consider , why?

 

Why are you marking the passing of the day?

 

But then it is recorded, and now in those lines there is fury, and fight and lust and love and musing and stewing in my dreamy mind obsessively. My bodyrang, buzzed ,quivered, shook, dozed off, jumped, gurgled with digestion, whistled with breath.  What little control I remember on the tubes! 

 

My fading logic loses as it desperately added and subtracted, looking for the angle of incidence to define a reason. Make sense of this! But it fails, and I am free to take flight 

 

Circling around, the person in  my pajamas looks foolish slumped and snoring.

The tubes multiply, with the counting of another day, a visual journal of nothing seemingly profound. Until they add up, one Bounty and Charmin  tube after another. My wheel of heaven has been written on my trash.