Purple on the wall -
An asymmetrical sheet
That hangs limply
Like a teen on the street

And what is more
It is covered at the bottom
With demonic machines
Whose function I’ve not gotten
Quite clear in my mind

But yet I value
What they represent

A sort of adoration
Lives in me
As I consider all these
Confusing boxes
That come in threes
And sometimes fours, too.

And in these dull hours
When time trickles into me
I gaze and gaze with vision rays
At this technology

And I wonder:
Was it not a blunder?
To make machines that amplify
Sound
So that it fills all
Between earth and sky?

Such arrogance
Is not found in a mouse
To make such a screaming score
Emit from its house

And yet I admire
And cherish the noise
That fills the emptiness
Like water in a cracked jug

It seeps out slowly
Just slowly enough
That it waters my flowers
Without drowning me
In auditory atlantis

For that would be death
So far as I understand;
Not a whimper, no
But a marching band.