Round and round

That fucking box fan’s shrill spinning
fat mama jokes at high speed and she’s stomping
again to the heartbeat of my paranoid fantasies.

She got that late night dust bunny dream sickness
on spotless floors and what’s more is that someone
needs a hug and I’m blamed for a world of emotions I cannot control.

Christ, did I create all this in a noise cancelling
headphone of evening disenchantment? I don’t
remember plugging that cord when I set to rotating

my mania with the outside world. Yes,
on high, on low, on semi-permeable membrane of dust –
in fur, in breeze, in yonder to semi-please I scream

at the sky for relief in these times.

Knock one time for absolution, twice
for restitution then set those fans to spinning to keep
the outside world at bay.

That fucking box fan’s shrill spinning, still winning
as drones bone down into my marrow to cover
the fear that despite all the hell fire and smoke

she might ask me for something.

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