Your interpretation is meaningless to nostalgia,
your statements of context artfully crafted to
conspicuously elude the trap of immortality.
Presenting yourself before audiences is an
accident waiting to clap its hands,
a story waiting in a jar as hospitality
unbuckles its appetite for horror.
Whales and eagles blink their eyes, alarms go off,
individuals who never imagined it find themselves
eating electricity with utensils made of impotent timepieces.
Density accumulates around fenceless domiciles.
Strangers hold your mail in makeshift armories.
A force of God surrounds your sense of house,
a force of inevitability, a force of something you
cannot whistle but which you
can feed into the open mouth of a cheap statue,
cracking its plaster as you return it to a
store shelf and meekly slip outside.
You float through shopping malls and fast food drive-throughs,
disappearing into nonexistent movie theaters and
distant grassy gutters filled with hot bottles of beer that
tease you in your mercurial extinction.
Minds open but mouths close for
none should speak of these encounters,
mimicked as they are by the
faces you see in laundry machines and the
voices you hear in shower drains.
