You’d think you’d hear it,
                                        overblown, blowing up
                                                                                your mind, the dial over-
                                                                                                                      turned, woofer flowing
flowing a fat vibrating tongue-
                                        hum. You’d hear it if you thought
                                                                                it could save you. You’ll do
                                                            anything for a bit of salvation,
anything to be wrapped in blue
                                        neon, a smokebox basement
                                                                                with a quintet of angels hammering
                                                                                                                      out chords and a few squeaky notes.
                                        Forget them pearly whatchamacallits.
You’re here for instant rapture, here to melt
                                        in the span of a tune, ice slipping
                                                                                into brown liquor. You’ll hear it
                                                                                                                      blowing up your chest
                                                                                                                                                             after a few more rounds,
when the ceiling lowers its ninth cloud.
                                        Leaning back on two creaky legs, you’d think
                                                                                you’d hear salvation laying you low,
                                                                                                                      running its tongue through your veins.
You’d think you were being thrummed
                                        out of this world or farther into it.
                                                                                But what’s the difference, really?
                                                                                                                      In some kind of heaven we hear
what we don’t want to, here.