Beethoven in the morning, 
my morning made,
made deafly hollow in the hot sun from the window,
the cracking rum, drum of the record player behind me.

I am ashamed of myself,
as I see myself growing back into my old, wrinkled body;
careful of needles and the edges of the book’s pages.
But perhaps the rainbows of the mirror mixed glass mixed deodorant stainless sticking steel—perhaps I’m too old to be back old again.

He slams these things into my ears
and they enter my mind like slugs,
mucking about, making babies here and there with the residential nut house nurses inside my cerebral cortex,
forged out of salt and grape jam.

Old Ludwig van cannot hear me scream, “Your rhythms are too harsh, I’d much rather hear your cries.”
But ol’ Ludwig van can’t forge his coffin’s top,
for ol’ Ludwig van cannot hear me. 

Jumentous.

June 4th - 6th