The Broadcasts

It is a fundamental truth to awaken
with fused eyes not from the tears
but the infections. Day after day
with each decrease in sight
the idea of the wet-eyed elders
with their tissues tosses about
on tables in gnarly heaps
of time origami, these used-up paper puzzles.
Stacks of literature near
the resevoirs of waiting
for pills of hope counted dearly.
Two o'clock to ten, eight hours
of constant sleep, rainbows
full of impossibility, this one
for life, a pleasant pot of gold.
The furnace blows in fierce reminders
yet the schedule remains the same,
the retirement accounts are growing.
Nothing beats an investigation
but a trial, the fuzzy light
of TV where old women go
and big men rest in the constant
chatter of radiation, whole dynasties
of excuse and banter, fickle
drainage and chalk philosophies
where the girls look fairly good.
Here is the etiology of the bloodshot
where the blind call the blind, the blind.