Panic-ed Attacks of Nothing Alone is: words ringing against
the blank walls of empty rooms.
I go to where I remember crowds,
but only four of us remain trying
to drown the sound of our own
voices ringing hollowly against
the confines of discontent minds.
Silence is more peaceful
then the panic of a single sound.
How timid we must be
to spin such wild theories
of conspiracy: better to believe
in the evil of The Man
then the terror of accidental
intangibles spinning us
this way and that in the tango-
ed violence of sex that lies
between prostitution and lies
of lovers to one another.
At home there is no restfulness
simply the noise of TV movies
that I can take no joy in. Simple
plots of sad people and bad
beginnings making my own
hollowness seem contrived.
Happiness is the new cynicism.