I need to somehow find a bed

There's an empty space like
a discolored floor,
or crippled boards and
misspelled names stacked on
naked bookshelves distorted by
the whine of fluorescent lights,
spilling methane, fluoride, mercury
dreams into our brains.

You'll bury it deep where I'll forget
that something is here
covered by our yellowed veins,
that black hole space
you thought was so vast it could
contain everything at once,

When you laughed and threw
my soul in I watched,

In a moment
you'll forget
why I dove in to catch it.

My Plastic Sunlight Room

The sunlight's got a look
like plastic out my picture
framed window, but inside against
the white paint chipped sill everything
looks old and dusty and oil painted,

I can see every layer of the third
dimensional space getting older
and even myself, my cells bursting,
dying, aging, bursting, dying, the slow
process of death washing over me,
inevitable,

I watch the plastic sun smiling,
giving off no heat, only shadow light,
but still beautiful and somehow new,
new even though it is
untold billions of years across time
and running the same old route everyday
unfathomable,
and I am here forgetfully insignificant
hung up mourning the irony of the number 27

A Portrait of My Room

Steep hill dog-legs right,
fifty yards up the incline street,
parking permits and miniature yards,
at its peak sunk into the now slopping downward hill,
really sunk to the left, yellowed shingles,
down 5(?) cement steps
and blue cragged roof, around the back,
tip-toe right angle for sale long-ago sign,
I find my room in Maryland winter's driveway
and coverted backdoors, how many miles?
I sleep, vigilant/