Midwestern night.
There’s something out in the fields,
Something banging on the roof.
Fresh vomit in the toilet.
The sink is running, so you can’t
Hear your own heavy breathing.
Dad snores away in bed
Oblivious to the monster at the window.
The memory of nights like these
Grow archaic to him now.
But when you pass through the kitchen
On your way back to your room
Those eyes blare just as real as yours do.
I first began in the business of selling people when I sold a strange man in Jerusalem that I did not like for thirty silver pieces. Swaths of people flocked after him down into the precipice of the market.
1)
I think that when he looks at pianos,
The keys are stained and worn in
With grooves and dents,
In the shapes of his fingerprints,
ghosts of peo / ple hiding in this house / they grew up in and left / hiding under tables in clo / sets long thin men pale pe / ople dark people all hidden / separately in the same room / waiting for the seeker to finis / h counting endlessly endl
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