Phonograph
adieu
adieu
In the warm air of the ceiling the footlights of dreams are illuminated.
The white walls have curved. The burdened chest breathes confused words. In the mirror, the wind from the south spins,
carrying leaves and feathers. The window is blocked. The heart is
almost extinguished among the already cold ashes of the moon — the hands are without shelter — as all the trees lying down. In the wind from the desert the needles bend and my hour is past.
The former President lost his temper. Why did you yell in my mom’ s house?
She sounded like she does when her hands shake.
Was her reading too intense?
-- Did I kill Bin Laden? No. But I tried.
Master of PuppetsKung-Fu Theater