By a grainy old TV screen on a couch filled with piano keys, her coiled curls – like barely-brushed steel wool pull her in, wide-eyed, crying.
It doesn't look pretty, but that’s a life in the city: busy people hissing in all the wrong directions
She lives in an empty establishment on a greasy grid of streets.
And those eyes spin like revolver cylinders, spit tears like a runaway waterwheel.
She devolves to aluminum, shreds at the scalp, stares at the devil’s tele.
I tell her to stop, but I am already dead. Skeletal metal flat down in the corner.
Nothing does that, but nothing is quite like
Abacus Three TV: The end of being.
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