Sound Proof

A small room will forever be emptier. A bottle full of fizzy makes the day go down. The

uneventful life has no less meaning than the artist who becomes known in his own time.

Tell me why I never killed another man for having more than me. Tell me it wasn’t simply

that I knew there would be those with less than me waiting. Counter-revolution is

elevating everyone to some status of superiority—it is the instillation of a sense of others'

jealousy directed at the self. (When, let's face it, no one cares about your shit.)

For four square blocks

Dogs are known to dig up old bones. Also, if given the choice, they often opt to die

alone. We, however, human, die wide-eyed (of crimson, cry my son, and such). Cubs,

yes, even pups—we must lowly embrace that innocence is only deliberately abandoned,

never taken, never reft from our jaws, unless the utterance is our own. Guilt is so too

only admitted. We must own our tongues. Sometimes we must hold our tongues, or else

we’ll be exposed for having them. Out flowering is our fall, see, keeping quiet is our

lonely sanctuary. (Not that such security is good or healthy). Many people get nervous,

get agitated when they’re scared. I get quiet and altogether unfrightening. A thoughtless,

soothing voice, “I know. I know.” There is something new under the sun. Lo, eating,

they’ve perfected even their dipping, how they walk and gobble, they choke and swallow.

The boy’s first time goes unnoticed.

But there are last times for everything and rewards always just around the next invisible

bend. Least wise, there is nothing to comment once a perfect poem is read, for a perfect

poem is a circuit, which closes at the intersection of the reader’s mind and eye. That is to

say the head is a vital organ when reading a perfect poem—that is to say a perfect poem

is written headless.