Sick of this drugged noir,
this city and myself

for Christmas all I got
was a Raggedy Ann doll
with no mouth
and a taste for TV’s white noise.

This is her hermeticism,
to wake in the ellipse
of drowning, to sleep
in a tired humility.

But I know how easy 
ambition can make you 
shrink and love only
what you know. It’s this heart,
you see, through which bus
windows have lit up 
and carried my eyes away

in the demolition music’s still.

Through occidental shadow,
through the brass rings 
of wet brain, the tarp poison 
each megachurch brings, 
buying up the empty space.

Small mic religion can do little
else than rape the bagel chain.
Here the sound is slightly 
not what you know already

in the demolition’s music still