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The fat lady is singing because her heart
has broken both its legs. Bloody murder
rains out in a brassy chorus, where the
radio is useless machinery you can cry.
The chiming of old-timey music is really
the chimera of an idiot’s derision, like
a call to conscience from before when radio
was invented. It surges into awareness
without any message, & translates the staccato
of experience into ice, numbed by musical
phrases woven with the strings of violins.
The discordance of life-styles is projected
like the several notes in a single chord,
where living is a technique like television,
an approximate profession, wholly digital,
& experience more or less an encumbrance,
like the passive thrills found in watching
a bad movie. Personally, I’m wedded to
my sorrows, which brought with them some
momentary surprise, tainted by laudations
promised when the bars had closed, & text
messages that reply: “Sort of fun. Ur cool."
