He records the days of the dying
He has a scar from after birth
He sighs huddled in the hallway
following thought after thought
into some dark canyon
of the mind that is not articulated,
he stares into the realms of what's gone
the windows are wide blank rectangles
in the summer storm.
We watched the active shadows
tear all the curtains down,
we cleaned the hell's corner campus.
Angled in gray spaces
by the length of lengthening
American autonomy,
spun in a tall whippoorwill's call
for the pull of studs
in the laser boy's stomach. We're
watching the TV. The TV is
watching itself on TV, the TV is
watching itself watch us.
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