conditioned

he says,

"doesn't the air conditioner just make ya feel trapped?"

i'm thinking,

life is infinite ceilings

even the clouds are so much like

stained drop-tiles in

rented rooms.

for every pored ceiling
i trowel with a

dull gaze,

the city in turn lays bricks

in my lungs.

heavy are the weekdays;

the weekdays are for pining
(i've been clocking in

so much).

i ask,

how many roofs need upturning

until granted the sweet inhale

of death

or at least a little space

a little green

or a tree not raised in a god damn pot?

how long am i to sigh for roads

and forever have them to miss?

but i put on my ac and we sleep just fine at night.