1st
Secret Drum Brain
A cellphone has a special drop, unlike other drops, unlike in the swamp when glob drops down in the mud circling the whisper stove, or when chest flowers, seed drops down and what grows is a gut tree, or when beat drops down hard on puddingheads, sinks twenty ears, or, listen, never drop the glob of knowing if you take up drums, if you pad the puff on the drum’s machine, you will collar every planet but this one, and better lonely than dropped, you genius, you sound-kissing queen. No, not these drops, this other, the tiny brick in hand, a vibration, a tweet, a ting-tong, oh, that song is dark, dark, bump, bump, that beat is your computer’s and you popped it, yeah, and that’s how you drop down the cell, fingers loose from the hammerhead, give it gentle to the snow, no snap-back, no slip-claw, just let go, drop down, your hands are free, flounder, stare, marvel at your palm, an open squash, a flesh tub, empty, empty, phone face up on some other planet, ringing.
