the longest life

 

I'm down to blank confessions

floating through the city streets

like confetti

 

midnight

 

warehouses, each as empty

as the next and the

dust

 

has no triggers

to solve this.

A.R.H.

(automatic radio heart)

 

 

there's nothing inside

my radio heart -

 

a weak signal

about to turn the

station like a suicide

beneath the subways

 

where even dust

takes on vices

and learns the paths

of machines

 

learns the difference

between stars and

satellites and how

the streetlights echo

 

just so when the

gutters fill with heart-

ache from last night's

hangover party

 

whose uninvited

learned to read a few

more signals through

the half dead pulse

 

of the telephone

despite the static

now roaming the city

like a cloud of bees

 

broken from the hive

hungry even for the

bittersweet scent

of mere memory

 

when something

like midnight once

grabbed conscience

by the neck

 

and squeezed

until the automatic

blacked out leaving

just one last

 

lonely parking lot

of resistance.