All the good ideas of the world
swirl in this factory atop my noggin.
Call it an assembly line, a library,
a precipice over which showers
great floods of electricity,
watt hours of images
teeming ions of life. And yet,
I am robbed of much it
by someone’s drawing
or by someone’s murmur
their pinked view of the world
every mediocre lustful thing.
All the good ideas reside here, hid
in the hum and buzz and static.