I bang my head against the dry wall
so hard my skull is the only thing in the way of
what could be a truly original splatter painting.
I bang my head on the 12 foot high wall that reached
up to meet a ceiling to meet a floor
and then a door, opening wide
swallowing the single man
who makes muffled sounds
and pounds in a suspiciously rhythmic
confession of loneliness –
I wonder if he knows that below me
There is a couple who sings Michael Jackson
so loud their performance
contorts its way into my
frontal lobe and presses play
to an always resumed dance,
the kind where a mirror is my partner and I’m not wearing pants.
I wonder if they know we could be artists together.
Am I the missing piece to our trio?
Is the 808 experience, 2017 tour
cancelled in advance
because we are too programmed to consider our
identity of letter and number
to match only in that they don’t
and matter only in their mail won’t mix up with mine.
We are living in the same vertical line
and would have to exit with the same swiftness in case of a fire.
If we lift this up,
the walls we live
and because of
could we stand it?
The three people living in the same building
who actually knew each other.
I bang my head against this dry wall
and they do too.
I hear our heads smashing through
Our tissue damaged for the sake of
On a wall weaker than my bone’s
It’s a fact that we have made music already.
But, you know, it’s not as catchy,
doesn’t stick to my synapses
in the same way the
silent ascension of stairs and an opening lock do.
Because you don’t have to talk to
your neighbors, so why would you?