The bleary-eyed radio host steps to the microphone,
croaking out rudimentary information to the
spider-legged plaster of human beings spiraling like a
tangled mess of collided kite string and jump-ropes,
spreading away from itself but joined at the spittletips by
the signal, by the voice, by the unifying entries into the
minds of castaway strangers who identify themselves with
blank tendrils of radiophonic prestige, this random breeze of
churning winds that represent the movements of an audience are
lost to the details of analysis, lost to impunity and deceit,
helpless to the bone dry foam of drastic walls built
high and fast and punctured of their bricks by
political tombstones bursting from the ceilings with
poltergeists of boilerplate seen only in Florida inlets and
Australian bays, these distant connections proof of
nothing to the radio announcer, proof of failed triumph that the
world exists in its present and its continuous past,
proof that this world exists as a hobo in space and a splash of cooperation in the random spirals of God’s great torture.