Call me Radio

Wrap the radio in newspaper. Mix mediums, all you're risking is your loneliness and shirtsleeves. Rub butter on her nipples and worship the excess. Dress yourself like a telephone poll and don't be afraid to transmit all the way to Russia if you're feeling. Eat the silence like a mustard sandwich and pay with your library card. Get it through your head: there is no meaning to your furniture.

Too modern to bleed, we describe circles and float them up to radio towers. Their signals advertise the morbid luxury of accidents. The plastic tree at the mall is a ballerina of another lifetime, and her lessons are footprints on a knife. Discount translations sell at the kiosk because nobody is everywhere.

Pray to the satellites, they're closer.