pestling novel noise,

drubbed din of the nether-
world nidhogged under chicago, I
 
hear the gregorian space nuns pant
and prance about brows of the souring
pea flowers.                             Everything
 
seems to be emptying, how
all the growling verve of this
doddering fridge or the glibly
 
dribbling spigot might mean mere
nerve to some or some small, nerving 
thrum of the pixie stick pestle bent nettling what
 
sere cinder kicked
or skipped or thrust
out over oblivion’s brambling 
 
borderlands, al-
beit, odd though, never once
snuffed nor crushed nor gnashed 
 
into taciturn ashes, softer
than road tar scars or dust
paws up upon cold and swollen sills—for
 
that would be more than a fickle affront, for
that would be worse than murder. Listen—if
 
one can field one flimsing 
feeling even from throttling 
film, or the groaning 
door confessing that 
some smug, musty 
basement must 
portend no
more than the 
crow’s-footed tumult
of certain death, if one can
suss out the soles of a drunken Sibelius
burning the rubbings he’d drug across
 
some gruff god’s sepulchral gullet in
how many brass-bent breaths bid
burning in tandem; then 
 
one can adventure to mutter,
there must be music 
mashed amongst traffic jams, too.
 
there must be more 
to us or this than 
anything packed in 
exaggerated aspirin
clung at the ass of an acned
wine flute pressed from something more
ubiquitous and quick than dimpling plastic.