1/2;

Fortunately, I’m preserving this.

Half of the sound got donated to silence.

The other half is pronounced like a fissure;

it bangs dumb, it bangs drum, bang: a hum.

Pensacola, from the beach, and then I’m

transported to Southern California on the

sweat of another banging drum,

­

on another beach, and then North; I

remember seeing the hands in the sidewalk,

their concrete.  Los-fucking-Angeles,

bumming off of its actors that starred in

their cinema stays.  They’ll stay as long as a

measure on HBO, on Cinemax, on Netflix,

roof blown off the box office; I could count

all of the fills on a particle board; but storied

until silenced.

­

I’m out here in Little Town, USA, eaten

until I’m dead.  I’m fine—

storied until silenced, and indented. 

Bloated with angst, place my minutia in a

silver coaxial, we’ll all eat, maybe.

­

What happens if no one says a thing?

Shows no interest?

Do we not bring out the stars? //

Newspaper of record telling us of all the

backseat lovers, and however godly it

was—a near-miss backfired.

Always backfired.

Always… Fuck.