We Fear We Have Frighted
I hear the horns of our doom in the distance and
I hear Spanish cries of love and anguish and heartache only I’ve forgotten all the Spanish I used to know but I can feel these are the subjects of their wailing, echoing voices and
I hear a washboard rubbed up and down like a saucy lover on a sweaty, summer day and I hear the luscious lisps of Latina luchadoras leaping from the top rope into the arms of lucky lovers and
I hear a cowbell and need more, always and
I hear you whispering in the quiet spaces, where the horns of our doom take siesta, where the horns of doom turn away from the prior horrors they’ve wrought, where the horns of our doom pretend the future isn’t brass at all, but a glowing, rhythmic holy pulse of silicon and fiber optics and now
I listen for the sound of light moving through glass but only hear something that sounds like nothing and nothing is not what my ears long for at this moment, no, certainly not with those brash and ballsy horns of doom marching our way…