daydreams + fragments

this fear of being what they are:

dead.

at least they are not out on the street, they

are careful to stay indoors, those

pasty mad who sit alone before their TV sets,

their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

their ideal neighborhood

of parked cars

of little green lawns

of little homes

the little doors that open and close

as their relatives visit

throughout the holidays

the doors closing

behind the dying who die so slowly

behind the dead who are still alive

in your quiet average neighborhood

of winding streets

of agony

of confusion

of horror

of fear

of ignorance.

a dog standing behind a fence.

a man silent at the window.