From my window called dark winged blackbirds 

To arms—the hissy hum of tape deck 

Propaganda fluttered their wings to front line

Power lines and I couldn’t 

Take it anymore. 

My feet then sank deep in the 

Centipede and I wondered 

If I’d ever feel that way again—

If the ceiling fan could answer my waller or

Kiss my feet. There’s nothing

I’ve done to deserve the blue ribbon apart

From the rattle-boned change from

My waistcoat dropped desperate in the

Palms of hard-tongued grade schoolers 

Declaring “Work is never done.”

Prepare my body 

For tomorrow. 

The coins on my eyes are meant

For cases of landfill chow—I’ve gone 

Without answers and I’m sorry

To no one.