WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE HEAR

What’s wrong with the hear, Doctor?

It feel weird. It don’t hear

or like a brick block

it egress to wind

full of sounds and rondures—

noise bends the microscopic

hairs random directions and they sing

a false alarm, coded wrong—

dumb codice, shrieking

your dead falsetto

castrati nerves

shrilling to no purpose.

The cortisol

full-throttle

swells the endocrine,

prolapsis of a functioning system

and I sense a clear space

(clear song, clean line)

in this hive of misperception,

is it mine? Been wrong

so long, been down

and awkwardly footing

these wild and whirling words.

Swear ghost, dissonant receiver

of dirty pulsings

you’ll bless my vengeance

(my tables) on these wiles.

I read it, I dreamt it, I was it,

mute and buzzing—

iconic static—

white poison dripping in.