american idle
The symphony station is on in my ear hole. The piano is purring from a crack in the wall, every key clearly rings my false ribs; they’re rotating. There are twenty four ribs and thirty two teeth. Our wall textile is off center. Two of the ringlets around the blue and white planets are uneven, though symmetrical en bloc, as on a shield. My bare shoulders are inimitable, lit by the string of globes draped over the window (morose code for “we want attention”). Outside on Abrego, it sounds as if someone is whipping a metal cord across concrete. It sounds like a thunder sheet, like acid rain falling into a coffee tin. Some streets downtown are paved with gold. Our street is paved with guilt. My street is paved with greed, its green. I’ve been waiting here. I’ve been waiting. What’s going on in the street is of little concern to me. I’m still waiting here, stringing myself along, waiting.