after Toshimaru Nakamura
is not the white whorl of static
undermining and erratic
crackling in low lamplight
is not the cold manipulation
of a tonal manifestation
doubling you in black and white
(is not the sudden gasp for breath
as you track stainless steel death
circuitous in its blight)
is not the squealing crescendo
heard outside your bedroom window
late in the black-wrapped night
it is your feedback
not alarming you
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