Secrets and Cities

A TV sounding war through the wall. Shouting, serenading the cold hard concrete of a callous street. The descent of a distant plane, its pause and its purpose dying. Of course a siren – the culminating symbol, cipher, and symptom for the sounds of this city – is exactly on cue, as loud as a stereotype. All the unnecessary whirrings of a volatile, hot, vast hell waste away, before repeating, waste away, repeat. And there is never silence.

And this is no secret. The ears hear this hell most eloquently. But the slight thunder trembles the fat thighs. Tinkles and clinks around ten cold toes. In the lines along the eyes, it is located with ease. Hits of the air aggravate the hammer of the heart, and the clap of a fight clenches a fist. And then, another fist unhands itself, and fingers hack at a keyboard.

Hack fist hack, hush hush fist hack.