the
noise irritates, the couch watches, floorboards whine. winds blow against
walls, the paint is listening, doctrine drips upon dungeons. great idealism,
idioms on ceilings, her secret wafts in waves.
the
noise irritates, a settee tips, tops over, stands again; the dresser becomes
confetti, diaries speak certain pages, the bed has moved itself.
trucks
are sitting still. the noise irritates. loudness in silence. a man has binoculars,
looking at cloud language, we might ask: What has God lusted for?
the
noise irritates, the silverware is walking, it feels like acid—tripping into
its domain.
some
personal fantasy—some unreasonable geisha—the noise irritates.
as
isolated creatures, watching church grounds, dipped thrice, still on flame,
sniffing, snorting, popping, without laughter.
addicted
to Catwoman. the noise irritates. dying upon swords. blankets made of guilt. it
shouldn’t be what America has become—"What should it be then?”
