12.22.2008

Some folks pay to hear white noise.

I hear things in the walls
of this old house at night
throbbing, humming, pumping
sounds not unlike those made
by the chanting multitudes of souls below
the C-5 cargo planes swooping overhead
the electromagnetic forcefield holding us all
begrudgingly in place each day.

Part of me swears it has something
to do with the six people who've died here
almost seven, eight

but it's probably just a combination
of the boiler, the refrigerator, the plumbing
my computer.

Ha.

"My computer."

It sounds so vain compared to the rest.

I guess that means I'm onto something.
Bear with me; it's a fruitless labor of love.

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