**** and *** and
smeared fire truck red lipstick have been
the bass notes
(the leaden circles dissolving in air)
of these past few lifetimes.

I've grown aware that my brain
is tuned incorrectly.
The antenna that detects frequencies
(art, truth, and death turn things to marble)
of screams and whispers and noise
sticks out obscenely. Pornographically.
Sometimes I give in to it
and thread myself along its wires,
intertwining with the sharp ambiance.
My heart beats faster
An unholy fusion
And I contract, deliciously,
Undulating with the compressions in the air.
They light up the silent ******* scream
coursing through my veins.

Would he have liked it here?
Or would he have sat
Unobtrusively, as I do now
and longed to feel the surf lap against his toes?

Lying here the world seemed very full
and suddenly
it collapsed. Just bounced, quickly,
in and out. And back again.
Am I alone?
Did I win?
Am I breathing?
Yes, yes, and yes.

I know now how something
Unrelated to food
Can be sickening, after all.