Readymade

Remnants

The technicolor golems who lurk in the electronics store
bid me farewell with a bag full of wires,
and down the gum-splattered sidewalk I try not to run.
Meticulous my movement, legs now walking sticks,
a forthcoming message rains from the sky
in the form of a shadow from the building above
flicking his cigarette butt out of the window,
which stops right in front of me, a crumbled
fossil of black lungs and petty defiance turned into a blind streak.
Someone pushes by me.
When the tape of my life runs out of film
will someone listen to it or will it be recorded over?
And will every color I've painted with
fade to achromatic like the first stage of death?
Far after my viscera turn to dust will a scraggly voice box be audible?
(Step on the cigarette butt, have no dread.)
Will every penny given to
the redsuits outside of the grocery store,
ringing their bells like they're beckoning in spirits,
gain compound interest?
Golden vinyls have poorer sound quality, I tell myself,
but they look better on the wall.
I put my wires on my desk, some
of them never plugging into anything.