[poem] But of course, the rescue never ends.

When the first heat of thunders roared, 

They did not think it ominous, 

A yellow sky, a purple noon. 

They went their ways to the dinners reserved, 

And served their plates with chatter. 

 

When the second heat of thunders roared, 

They did not listen to the crash, 

Only rumbles, mumbles of what could have been 

Nothing more than complaints. 

They were men and women occupied with gentleness, 

Did never concubine themselves to broods 

Of mad mistress. They looked, 

Only a second, to the crystal-clear protection of a curtained window, 

And clattered their utensils so brightly, 

They thought a grumble and crack would follow the flash. 

 

But when the third, the fourth, the fifth came forth, 

They ought to have been stopped. 

Paralyzed, they ought to have dropped 

The silvers, the porcelain wonders, 

Escaped the concave and 

Run to open grounds. 

I, crumpled under their eyesights, stuttered incomprehensible wonders: 

Did they not hear… 

 

Oh, but of course, no-one rescues. 

I understood. 

 

Because when the thunder whips, 

Ferocious as it can be, 

They hear with eyes open, but never hear the boom. 

They listen, to carve in hearts their own sentences, 

Shackles for their own ankles. 

But the ears never open, a degenerate organ. 

A hollowness they have adopted, their guts are empty, 

They cannot swallow any but their own. 

A doll of ceramic, thoughts echo, ringing and ringing with no reception, 

They cannot listen to any but their own. 

 

The end of a phone line attached to a haunted firehouse. 

Nobody to come. Nobody to come. 

The tire-slashers of a running ambulance. 

Nowhere to go. Nowhere to go. 

 

When I rise from darkness, they do not flinch 

For they knew I was there all along. 

They did not listen, but they heard. 

They heard, but they didn’t listen. 

I walk toward their glistening knives that carve off roasted grease 

And yank the blades off their grimy ringed hands, shake 

Under their all-hearing eyes, threatening to cut their throats. 

They do not flinch.

For they know I cannot revolt so much as flail 

Under the glaring blind ears of theirs. 

 

Nobody rescues… 

 

Me. 

I am a slave of those enslaved. 

I am an omniscience choked by a blindfold. 

I do not know why. I was born an atavist. 

 

When words thunder, I perceive each and every note 

Harmonizing, de-harmonizing, 

Resonance of dissonance, 

I hear, I listen, 

A function simultaneous, 

Not so, to others. 

When ignorant jingles toll their rhythms with sanctity 

It is like a big heap of gibberish, 

White noise, corrupted. 

It rings. It rings again. 

It rings again. 

A call to prosecute, from those who ought to extricate. 

A sign to kill, from those who ought to die. 

 

I speak. I do. 

But never does my voice crave through. 

So I wait, 

Under blinding aural serenity, 

For the rescue, 

The rescue that never ends. 

 

Of course, the rescue has never begun. 

 

When I cannot hear a word I say, 

This, is the world I lay 

Bare, only, for you. 

The rescue never ends.