stenography

be quiet. the fresh cut flowers are talking
they'll tell us where the killer is.
in a closet without a door we are
recording each other's voices
with the machine. everything is
a shadow puppet if it is dark enough.
i chase the tails of weird men.
dig in the basement in the hopes
of finding hell. i tap my notetaker. i say,
"write mitch mcconnell is dead." 
the note taker does not think. becomes
whatever i give him. a process of reality making.
i am not above celebrating the deaths
of oligarchs. in fact, on my worst days
i stay alive to outlive them. i have dreams
that their dust is destroyed. not allowed
to re-enter to big soup. i can think of
no fate worse than no being permitted
to get into the soil. i want a farmer
with leather hands to lift a handful of me.
the notetaker suggests we are running late.
recently, i am late to everything. i don't know
where my obsession with time went.
i break clocks. i take a hammer to my car's
dashboard so that the little "check engine"
light goes out. i can't remember
what it was like before i had the notetaker.
did i just forget each day? was i alive?
i love that there are scientists 
working on time travel. thank goodness.
someone need to unwind the big slinky
& see what dinosaurs smelled like. my partner
thinks they smelled metallic. i think they smelled
like my turtle when she's been sitting in
the plastic pool for the afternoon.
when the day starts i ask the notetaker 
for just a few hours when we can lie
to one another without the threat of permanence. 
he puts his machine down & we go for
a walk in the fields. he asks me,
"is he really dead?" i say,
"if we don't check, he is."