breaking the seventh seal.
blasting into the apocalyptic
season, blasting into the minor
and major faults of diseased
decades. Half valve piercings
into the decrepit walls of hunger,
orchestral hallelujah, the sound is heard
and looked for but never found.
brass suicides are reported on
all corners of the earth, one especially
outside your window,
-dying in the middle of a serenade gone mute.
it’s a sound hidden, riddled with anguish,
a metaphor for an open disguise. Play on
and on and on and on until my ears bleed ,
until my ears bleed, play it again and again,
until my eyes hear what my ears can’t see.
blow your horn into the ant pile at my feet,
into the voices that drive me mad in my sleep,
blow hard, make the sound push the forgotten
souls closer to their resting place, blow softly
until flowers open their hearts for the hummingbird
to tickle them to death.