All the sounds, summed.

This is steady air, and if it had a a color: red.
Red, but not like blood or roses--instead
a sort of bourbon-and-bitters.  But just the color
because it is too flat, this air, to be bitter.

 A mold fills up, sets, is broken.  Sets fold out,
stage, are broken too.  The longer the air stays steady
the fuller it becomes until it is hundreds of percent
itself and is in danger of collapsing, until it is
a degree or two warmer than is really comfortable,
until it is condensing on your glasses, until it
is unclean, smoggy.

Flat out and only humming; muffled, or muzzled,
through hairpins and across skipping ponds, and
through the alto pipes of bullfrogs the air might
reverberate, but it is still still, and so thick that the
humming shakes your head with its rhythms, its
beat-tones push-pulling in tense not-quite-unison.

Thirsty: cut stenography tracking, tacking each
stuck symptom with its cryptographic dual.

And still the air is steady, just like before.  With a
weight a moments breeze from toppling, or fading
away.

We should never make sentient headphones

Foul like soured butter
so I unmake the butter
and pour it back into its cow

But the cow, with its teats and
spots and too many stomachs and manure
and cud, is foul too, so I unmake the cow
and pour it back into its mothers womb

But the womb, with its wet and placenta
and all its mammal viscera, is foul, and
so I unmake the womb, and all the past cows
and all their ancestors stretching down to the
first amoeba and even beyond it to salty water,
and lightning, and comets, and amino acids--all of which are foul

And then in the antiseptic origin of everything
I unmake nothing at all, and pour it in a loop forever,
and swear as much as I want to, listen to house and
dubstep and techno, and never think again