Stream 107

There’s a song playing. I hear it in my head from the bustle of my shoes, from the ceiling of the bus, from the incandescent ray of light leaking through the hole in her arms four seats away. I hear it. So does my head. It bops. No one else hears it. There’s a shimmer of strings and a tambourine and a drum, like thunder on a hill, roaring.

There’s a dog in the courtyard. I see him in my eyes from the sway of grass, from the barks of laugher, from the red eyes radiating out of his large skull through his four story frame. He stomps and howls and the buildings fall, the children flock to touch him, though he can eat them he doesn’t.

There’s a robot in the corridor. He feels. Off. But he feels. Cold. But he feels. And he tells me how he feels; his dark matter tesla ray gun shot into the heavens. He bursts satellite to flame. Space ash to vapor.

There’s a family of ducks at my bed. They whisper me a story about a journey. From the cold, across the pound, where metal dragons scream their silver song of churn and earth and construction, across the planes of pale grass, into my room to whisper their old stories.

There’s little demons in her eyes. They dance every time she smiles. They fall when she cries. Little demons of yellow and red, connected to something else and maybe something inside. She never tells.

There’s a bassoonist on the television. He’s young, maybe six or seven. He has no home. No family. He feels old and sad. He’s never seen a bassoon or an orchestra or a city or a symphony, but there are songs only he hears. He may starve, but I like to dream of him in black and white, on stage with his bassoon. I like to think a large dog will put him in his jaw, and how a mother carries her child, he carries him away. And how all the ducks will hear his song and tell me his stories. And how the demon’s in his eyes will never stop dancing.

An old creaky bus.

The howling wind.

Ducks at a construction site.

Some girl.

The morning news.

Maybe I’m the robot and no one’s told me. All my little images and thoughts shooting to the heavens, dispersing from satellites. Dark matter and telsa rays, hitting nothing.