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The Mother of Oil

de Be Under Arms

it's been twenty thousand days since the best ones hotels, plastic sheets, tasteless food, dialysis machines, the telephone hasn't rung since april.
staring windows.
ballroom jokes, resperators, kidney stones.
neon skies open up three saturdays a month.
the air in uptown swells.
the windowpanes can go to hell slow summer walking through a bad neighborhood toothless smiles renew ventricles.
the radio is live the listeners have found their reason.
the phone hasn't rung since april.
the music turns alone into home

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