you'd think I'd recognize his voice
even stirred from sleep, the
soft blankets in the wash the
scratchy ones I keep because memories
waking me up when sirens
or neighbors fucking don't.
In the A.M. I listened to
Father John Misty
play the same two chords
over roughly the same beat
expressing largely the same
(but putting forward different evidence)
and I had to agree
that it was brilliant.
At least, at four a.m. -- when will I
drop back off? five a.m now
shouts down the
hall, around the corner, I'm guessing, I've gotten
good at the guessing
but this one sounds more dangerous
and my window is not an escape
window, so if this is a rampage, this is how I go,
naked under scratchy
blankets, a folk singer roughly
mocking me for living.
Eh well. The slow click of a vacuum.
Those maintenance guys really don't sleep, do they?
unless horror rules apply, in which
Once you're in the halls, there's
a variety of stairwells, but if
a killer bursts into your studio