In the room with slanted walls everything falls
Apart, not at the corners as prophesied by our holy text,
The instruction manual, but like clouds
Tugged from a dandelion.
That’s why you have to hold yourself Together.
Glue doesn’t determine
The rupture, the prolonged disassembly.  

I know it’s not the room
I walked Into, but that’s ok: coordinates shift
At the drop of a mask—from anhedonia
To balmy psychotropics.  
The Pain Killer stalks the halls
Armed with muzzles and maps to nowhere,
Encapsulated bliss;

It knows no art, just numbers,
Unpeeling zeroes from hundreds,
The room’s contours dissolve number
And number as new claims are staked,
Furniture plucked away one-by-one to star
In pawn shop windows and new rooms out-of-context..