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.