Stuck

Bliss exists, if at all, in timeless
sounds, the running of a riff,
the timpani of a thought,
the excesses of taut brain tremors,
catching a moment,
propelling infants and psychics through
empty space and into
cauldrons, bubbles rising.

Take the innocent, the brain-damaged,
the dapper men wearing white shoes, then
hope the spin flexes pinwheels, a delightful
echo from early 1929, a mirror
of destruction, when pipers played
and drug houses opened, all
before the fall.

The click repeats, an erasure stymied
by blackness, a plastic
drilled with notes, the crumbling
of ciphers click-click, the end
of song, the end of tune,
the end of magic.