We Have Visitors Tonight

Joseph Moore

WE HAVE VISITORS TONIGHT.

I am not alone.
                           Silence lures the ticky-tack traipse,
                                                                        from ceiling to floor,
                           And the restless bawling of the pendulum
                           Turned on its side.


I am aware, but how blind?
                       Expectation of silhouette waves
                       In echoes, in double vision.    
                                          In darkness.


                        Shelter from the static
We are clinging to the air in short        pauses,
                                                                    From atop the elephant
                                                                    in the room.


                        Peering into pixels,
                        my stomach shrieks.


I’m searching for a remedy to
the uncomfortable minutiae.
                                         The paranoia that comes
                                                   From noticing the magnifying glass
                                                   That smears the stars of a painted sky.


The greys.
Their liminal shrouds.
                            Oscillations and backwards communication.
                           I’m thinking in hertz and amplitude,
                           In code and windtalker speech.


                                                          I am not Navajo, Apache blood will





                                                            have to do.


But I can’t decipher
a numbered cryptogram
over the ever
forever encroaching



                            white noise and distorted cellophane.




                           I am not alone.
                                    Blood on the rails.
                                    Capillaries engorged with adrenaline.
                                    I am reaching into



                                            nothing,


And pulling out card tricks,
And the black magic of deception,
pulling it over my eyes,
but my ears cannot fool a fool.


                                       A silhouette rustles under the glassy frame
                                       Of tonight’s sleepless spring.




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