Pulsing, tiny, in
musical blue
minimalism,
fifteen notes, over
and over, march

of a completed
mission. Someone tell
me what I have done.
Comfort me. Hold me.
Tell me. Speak to me

about all of my
spirit and goodness.
Five fat notes scream of
muted decline. Sick
castles, large mansions,

and airplanes full of
evil. I am big,
turning purple, mush
joining rotten plums
in a chorus of

hair-decomposing
death.