there is a straightjacket noose man
gauzed inside my chest.
breathing with inside fever and moving
around the edges with a mumble and
a shuffle he crowds the walls
with blue light.
the tapes fuzz and hiss when
his hands raise up to the glass
the security operator is crying
into his wrinkled shirt collar
and the wind whips itself
to a frenzy, the tapes fuzz and hiss
when his mouth opens up and
crawls a gasp straight to
the shout the shout rises like
sharp pockets of steam
and the director is shaking so hard
the pens on his desk chorus like
a thin drum choir, the desk is too hot
to touch, the noose man slips
to strands then to particle
then to simple sugars and
energy like light
right through the floor and the ceiling
and we are live
so live.
the glass once slow flowing moves faster
and sand is everywhere and
his eyes snap and chip into the
locks and the tape.
he rages in the deep the
lightbulb left, in the dark desert,
the red dust.
he lights like sparks and rises again
until my every muscle trembles
and the mothers chatter and my
teeth chatter and the director shakes
and the neurons shake and operate
like telegraphs.
(outside, I am a clenched fist.
a tired pillow,
the shadow under an open hand
and a closed eye.)
inside there is a crack and a moment
of confusion so brief as the smoke
clears and the neck has broken
on the noose man,
cut open by the speed of
his own sharp snaps.