Hum Torn T-Shirt
from the arena. July.
Time for the work you've done
to be really really really more than enough.
This is your party. This is your birthday wish.
All the O's you didn't then know. Stadium rock summer-
pyrotechnics, bloody lips. Bite
dwn. Smells like you wanted.
Stings and confuses what parts
embarrass you. Lick it up. Lick it up.
This once was your idea of what Jump
might grow into. O in a bathroom stall
sniffing coke off Paul Stanley's stolen pecs.
Go home with your t-shirt- your town is
listed, there is hope on your back now. We'll
always watch out for you. O can't even feel
the upholstery beneath her lycra- that's showbiz.
Things are sticky back home. You feel like the
inside of an old microwave. Where is Gene? Jump? O.
Hum is Interruptus/ This Ball Will Drop With Or Without You, Mr. Clark
Walked in on Hum duty-free. Assembled garrison
dressed in feathers and spit-glue. The only thing
stopping Jump is the idea that the body can't fake
without him there. When the cawing door- run!-
betrayed the storming of O, the tiny motor's dance
stomped slow tempos into the thought of unifying
the simplest components. (From pocket watch, no coat,
pants.) Undignified in light from the television: Talking
Chins, Tardy Humor. How many men Hum's seen tonight?
Lobbies. Magazines about slides. The doctor as finger/throat.
It could go on (the dribble without the shot/hanky/walking).
Hum can't remember the way back now that it's this dark.
Jump is still holding onto the doorknob and his fly. Take no
offense, M'dear. O no longer knows the way now that it's stark
naked in the hands of a pilot in the throng of his unfortunates.
Break it off. Call the shots. Get it goin'.Keep on truckin'. Press
menu on your remote to access bonus features. YES, LET'S!
Title screen: O is holding onto the receipt. Hum is on the phone
with Jump and there is nothing here not to be left, at all, alone.