repeating itself

my father's records turn into bats at night.
i open a thousand cd cases & find no cds,
just the little carapaces where sound
used to live. my desire to gut a room
is hereditary. i carry a knife.
slit from neck down to baseboard. 
i look at houses & imagine us moving in.
the world has less finger nails every day.
i try to chew a walnut open & break 
the hinge off my jaw. i wish we would all 
take a whole week off. let the damn thing
crash. let the tomatoes get really angry
& the birds invent their own national 
anthems. the nights have turned licorice on me. 
i find beetles in the walls & just hope 
they go away. of course they don't.
they start reenacting the american revolution.
i let them have their flag & their horrors. 
freedom was always a trojan horse word 
for this country. inside crouching,
"hunger" & "knife" & "greed." when it rains
a little stream forms in the yard.
the frogs come to try & record a hit album.
it is too late. there are no more hit albums,
instead, we put teeth in our ears. try to hear
the bite-down when the flesh becomes break. 
i am surrounded by circles. the way next week
feels like this week just without any bioluminescence.
there are not enough outlets in the house
to plug in all my little gods. there are also too many.
i find my father with a tri-corner hat. 
he is holding a musket. he is barefoot.
the moon is casting lots 
with the visiting blue-face stars for his clothes.