Something!

Look, I think it’s the typewriter.

It’s like getting your message across, using any and

all means possible.

I don’t want to slip into the madness of the walls,

but when I need a machine

to beat out my tongue,

the walls and their madness

look less like disease. Boundaries.

Boundaries.

Boundaries.

and it slows down, like hunger

and I admire what you say,

about the artist and her clay,

but holiness is holiness

with Wonder in the way

Look! It’s the typewriter and the city. I keep fucking up, finding holes and falling into them; reaching out so far that the power plants pollute my hands and I begin to murmur about the human scent and something, something!, about our swollen feet and those biorhythmic city ticks. Its blood is us and ours is lost.