Institutional Poetry


The room feels wet . . .it

Smells like a holding pond in Oregon

where pine logs float heavily

waiting to be poked and prodded damply

into the circling steel blades:

stripped and peeled

on a lathe like an apple .


The room sounds abstract

Like an airplane

Two hours in to a four hour flight.

The bland beige angular walls stand

static in the clouds

and deny motion..


We have a destination here

Marked and measured in discrete divisions

of light and night spinning.

The room tastes and smells institutional

I long for a peach. . . I think I

remember the taste of one in my mouth

but it’s only formaldehyde

from the carpet

that lingers on my tongue.


Like making love on a tile floor

The room feels hard.