Gravity might sound like this. It may not be
water. It does not feel like water.
It does not have these familiar qualities:
life affirming, thirst quenching, refreshing nor
soothing. Tho if not built for aquatic memories,
it still falls like water around our black, square
acre depression. A gravity diversion dam
runs off into spillways forming streams two, three
inches thick that ripple and sway with a river
wind against the east wall, making waves.
Some watch for ghosts in the wavelets, leaning
towards the center, our sound that would be gravity

Falling from the edge of our square acre, black
depression, gravity’s echo in endless
repetition. Would you mind for a minute
to take our picture? Idiot images
forever refracting, looped through the center, falling
towards the bottomless melancholy by what
memories the dam drags down, layering on
top of one another, increasing the mass,
pulling protons from the neural pathways, tiny sparks
rendering the unique equivalent
of crashing towers.

Lost objects: a laugh, a dead pet, a meadow, oral sex,
creative felicity, so comfortably coming
in a warm bath for the first time—how sad to watch those
little swimmers beaten against black granite with
eighteen thousand gallons of water every minute—
thousands of men swimming in deep memories,
judging a pubescent moment as perfection, all
rushing towards a bottomless hole, unhindered
to a supposed void. Fascism works like this.
And the roaring gravity billows and sprays
on faces searching for the bottom
of noise.

How careful, she remembers, taking those eleven
steps—each one bathed in a pool of light as her
foot tapped the ground, and now what misery each
one has wrought. Each in their own special
way. It sounds like this, in the beating blades
of a helicopter, air whipping the face
on a day in December, as she ends-up
in a stranger’s picture
Automatic photographers shopping at
the Oculus for atrophied optics. One
giant eye tired of looking at the sky
all day. Repetition automatism by
the sound of shutter simulacrum the same
empty center as the machine way
of being. When the towers crashed, it
was the most photographed event in
history—images echoing in endless

On a cellular level, sex protons streaming from
a secret door in the hole, that leads to the
Macy’s vault where the diamond rings are kept and
a new way of a life unfulfilled awaits
in savage, wild at heart men, trying on cologne,
disrupting the natural progression
of conjugating protozoa, halted
in a fury by a desire to marry through
an app which commercializes every molecule in
the body.

Before our depression, melancholiacs were
known to be hot or cold, and when hot
excessively libidinous like
donkeys, overdoing it with lust. Their love
hateful, twisted and death-carrying, like the love
of voracious wolves. Terror Sex—
described by New York Magazine as,
a kind-of urgent, unguarded, end-of-the-world
coitus inspired by that day’s sudden jolt
of uncertainty and fear—
is hot.

I thought everyone knew Elon Musk was a
government robot, he said—not to dismiss
her psychosis, but because they have grown so
tired of this cycling back to saddens,
and sometimes an alien mania can offer
relief. To be honest, perhaps it will ultimately be
the laser beams of flying saucers that will stop this
soft power from producing an unsustainable
amount of misery.

Or perhaps, on some frozen day, the fountains will be
shut—the budget cuts precipitated by a glut
of melancholia will now allow your
mental state to affect subsequent levels
of being—whatever you choose, pause,
careful not to judge, without attraction, repulsion,
voluntarily towards seduction in whatever
form, dragged down in endless repetition while
the sound that would be gravity grows.