if not
for the irregular thump
of the ceiling fan

the world is so

still
for a long moment

i am
alert
the hairs on the back
of my neck
stand on end

a chorus
of cats fucking

somewhere
in the bushes

startles the world to
life again
but not
really

it is all
subdued
stretched out

the normal traffic
now
an occasional

putter

the planes
no longer circle
overhead

it’s so
quiet

you can hear a pin
drop
you can hear
your thoughts
the drugs

don’t dampen
the white noise
is

vacant

to be a hobo in the thirties
with
the secret language
free travel
the stars as your
blanket
the only direction
forward
the only home

the tracks

it’s so quiet
you hear

the neighbors
muffled
yelling

and it is something to cling to
as your own
thoughts
keep thundering
home
rattling teeth
clenched fists
throbbing

temples

it’s so quiet
the cats fucking
is soothing
if only for the distraction

try not to think
of the barbed cocks
as they yowl

try not to think

let

the irregular thump
pull you
in different
directions

cross out
of this fragile shell
float
on the stale breeze
that flutters
the papers

on the couch
next to you

as sleep
escapes

no comfort
no anything
just blank

silence

punctuated

by
a cat orgy.

if this is hell i expected worse.