A twinkling expanse in the morning sunshine. On a portable radio, sweet talk from across the globe. Sounded like she was singing from a nest of wires. Don’t think about it. The downtown retail sector is in a state of devastation. Hungry creatures roam, look like they’ve been punched senseless selling unsustainable debt to each other. I love my black Moorish bass. But I’ve been beaten over my metaphorical head too, and I’m much too nervous to stand up. (Stop it, you’re hyperventilating.) I love crashing, but nothing bad has happened yet, has it? Time to declutter the house, hey listen to my poem about Obama (obvious displacement activity, stop it). Something is coming, something with an enormous belly. Ghost of a gull chick. I do not think that she will sing to me.

(from Bardo. More from Bardo here)