THE ENORMOUS ROOM

The desire lines move east from warm to brutal: lead you to the room covered in a dirty, delicate frost. Overheated just the same, one bulb on above all night: listen to the yelling about youth and poverty over the domafon.

Jostled by forty year-old burlap suits then shoulder-checked by mohair hats: you are buying vodka and kale. The enormous room features battles for a glimpse of the pork display: for denying the infinity of market progress, for ignoring the definition of miracle growth.

To smile rarely, to reserve a quiet contempt for beards and totems: to be barely tortured by greatness. Our eyes just do not meet: never enough vitamins for us to look other than straight ahead. The air burns coal and trash itself: skin ghosts of stone walk with the same pallor and shoulder blades.

They think they’re damaged, they remain in haunt: the national disease  just another in the universe trying to survive. To keep the inside anywhere: between the grey and sulfur, you run the perimeter in an electric blue. What is unsaid and underneath, what remains of the lemmings of a Sunday morn: try not to spit in their path.

The argument with him over what is outside: a team of horses pulling their freight across these long central fields. Screams at the spectacle of trampling: the rearing up and knocking down, the rearing up again and crushing. A boy emerges from a violent blur at the wagon seat: his arms thrown up in helplessness. You watch from afar: afraid of your power, of the alcohol dousing your genes.

To speak with them is to become that boy: a child without child and barely with language. You make the mistakes to which everyone reacts the same: these tramplings, they are inevitable. The room is turning into a workshop of statistics and resources: they would rather switch to your lexicon and pay the positivism forward. They all ask you the same questions: why have you come in, and will you stay here forever?

To encounter real compassion: give old town directions to the blind man’s wife. See the hooligans circle their sites of sacrifice: prostrating before bottles and hubcaps. Most of their fathers + sons and all of their brothers + uncles are bald: daily they drag dull razors across their faces to be ready for war.

An attempt at translating the country’s consonance and cheekbones: this tribe scouring the room for work, leaving contrails of history and bleach. Yet she has found a job in 24 hours, she says she has no complexes: every photo is tagged with życie – life.

To know each alley of these photos: the puddled corners to which you were not invited, the clubs with which you are bored, the facades from which you are barred entrance. Forget those who have extricated themselves: you saw how easily they fainted. Each alley is photographed, walked and ridden past: to move round this enormous room is to leave it in memory.

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