Friday night

the metal pours out of

the speakers

spills across the keys and desk

the city on the other side of

the door is most likely

pulsing with drunks and

sure things

live music

drink specials

and

possibilities

of every kind.

sitting inside behind the

machine, sitting forward

on the desk

leaning into

3 Inches Of Blood

blasting like a Mars symphony

sitting here in the quiet chaos

of this, in the blood of focus

without fences, without physics,

without laws or definition or

even a basic understanding

of any of it.

a complete and flawless

silence of the unknown

pulses with the

metal, no, the music

and space created by

the words and metal

the scream and vacuum of

colors, the rush of the

lines cutting into

the page

the music and the

escape,

always that,

disappearing

into

the words

and music

and space

never wanting

to

approach

comprehension

never wanting

to

leave

until

it

shuts

you

off

to

keep

you

owned.