Bloated

Bloated. Eight blinis, two boiled eggs and a packet of ramen poking out here and there between thin muscles stretched over a pushed out belly. Pushed.

Stretched wallet over a beer and two eggs and a packet of ramen. The money comes slower than the food. At least the chickens keep laying.

Slow steps in slow rain drops and tarps pulled loosely over grassy bales, heavy and heavier with rain.

A night of breath-rite strips and the smell of a late night slim jim snack, snuck, sneaked in a bag from the land of the slim jim, that little packet collecting what's left, coagulated loveliness, coerced into slim little packets of salt and spice.

A burp. Two shakes of the pepper had been enough. One would have done it. One here, one strip across the nose, opening the senses to a days worth of collected smells, seeping slowly into blankets and carpets and curtains, curling about the floor and settling into clothes unfolded, unstacked.

Curled in one place, one solid space, one clear path of air and roadway dust--air for brain, air for dreams, light falling from stars falling from falling grace and--