twenty-eight

In El Paso, a man wakes up with his brain skittering
like a stuck disc drive -
it's like he's been awake for days, not seconds,
the same song on his tongue,
unable to escape

washes of guitar, mid-high distortion,
cavernous drums, etc.,
seem to originate
in the soft inner surfaces of his skull

whence they proceed
outward toward all four walls of the dark room
and drip down - whereupon our man, who was awake
the second he opened his eyes,
feels a sort of agitated peace come over him

in France, meanwhile,
Drastus has accidentally committed the whole scene to tape
and contacted the people who put his records out
and called his mother to wish her a happy birthday
all blissfully, unmercifully unaware
of the Texas connection