Loose paperclip on the table
signaling for order
waiting for words
to manifest on paper
and
hold it all together.

The overheating radiator
in his mind spews out
ancient cruel riddles
of self torture
over and over

anxious-

to boil his sleeping hand
that hasn't touched a pen for weeks, even though the emotional impulse flies with lightning tips through his storm scandal eyes...

Scorched by green antifreeze
all he can do is bury himself in
passing clouds of inarticulated patterns as they flow beneath a blazing moon-

hoping for the invisible, wayward prophet to return
and interpret them
in such a way-

He hears a otherworldly voice become his own.