brain shuttles along the loom like wind through an organ's pipes. sing your horrid song within the cathedral, a tune of broken crockery & dull stone arrowheads. somewhere this melody isn't thin & reedy, isn't so full of bluster & stale air. but here, it is nothing so much as sucking on a muffler, choking on exhaust. these sounds just leak out if you arn't careful, like blood seeps from a scap when a knee is flexed. when you can't tell the diffrence between wishful thinking & a memory. when thinking hard means being locked in a boiler room, furnace sputtering steam. hearing the hammering in the water main & calling it voices. it might be voices- throbbing roars of an endless crowd, speeded up as if the record players speed was cranked higher. the analogy is one of fiddling for worms- or i should say, being a worm that is fiddled for. can't anybody else here the thrum passing through their body? again & again i answer the call of the saw.