Paper Door

Here we go, take my
hand and let me lead.
The partridges make
that beat you hear.

Partridges live here.
They rent the unit
below—I believe six
maybe seven or so.

Keep moving past
the cobwebbed
situational thing:
shut your teeth.

Speech mollifies
only when it does,
otherwise it makes
the jungle-nerves.

Old-timey player piano
chiming incessantly
imagine a skeleton
hammering ivory.

Such is the movie
unfolding in the
cucuzzu. I tap it
so no confusion.

Everyone makes
bread their own
way, some yeast,
some fear the yeast.

Music makes nothing
softer, unless it does.
I mean, like the black
velvet puff in my jacket.

Time for me to show
you the paper door.
Mentioned somewhere
in this screed, for sure.